


Dominique

by HarrietHopkirk



Series: Dominique [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assassins, Community: HPFT, Death, F/M, Loss, Murder, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrietHopkirk/pseuds/HarrietHopkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you</i>
</p><p>Lorcan is dying, and with the mysterious return of his brother, Dominique Weasley is torn. Ridden with guilt and fear, her perfect life is crumbling around her as she is approached by a shady organisation. She has to make a choice, not just between the two men, but between the light and the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At A Loss

I. AT A LOSS

* * *

 

There is a certain process that must be followed, to emerge from the blackness that comes after a world ends. It takes a sudden assault to the senses, and a slight movement to remind the brain that it is housed in a body - that there is something there to control and drive. Next, the muffled sound of conversation reaches the ears, but it is not possible to understand the content.

     “You’ve heard?”

     “I know, I can’t believe it... I was going to be on shift with him tomorrow.”

     “You know... you know what they would have done to get him to bleed like that?”

     “I don’t want to know.”

     “He was probably still alive when they...”

     My eyes saw nothing except for visions of human disfigurement. It seemed that everywhere I turned there was another example of a human being impacted upon by one of man's own creations. A girl was wheeled in with horrible burns. More than one violent accident came through the doors. And there was even an old man who seemed to have mistakenly severed his finger.

     I remembered finding him, shattered and twisted and bleeding profusely, his breathing ragged. The open window. The broken furniture. His office, usually so light and comfortable, had been dark and dingy, his wrecked possessions and splintered wood and glass littering the floor. And the blood. _“You know what they would have done to get him to bleed like that?”_

     I moved my head slowly to face the people standing in the cavernous white room: healers, relatives, people waiting. A family in the corner stood up hastily when a healer approached them, lowering his facemask and shaking his head sadly. That family might be us in an hour or so. And I watched their reactions, trying to acknowledge the correct way to respond to these things - they were crying, one was on his knees, another still and silent.

     It didn’t help. I had succumbed to this horrible numbness, and I had blended into the blank white walls: undefined and bland, cold and uncaring. If I had made the mistake of looking into a mirror, the paleness of my skin would have complemented the shade.

     They had sat there for hours, in a cold and drab waiting room, watching healers go in and out with various potions and machines. I had loitered outside in the corridor - snapping at my cousins and my friends, too annoyed by the sympathetic looks and encouraging smiles. The words that had been used by the healers in the snatches of conversation that I had greedily overhead in the waiting room had shifted from my ears and settled in my stomach like lead:  _a very small chance, he may pull through, he may fight it._

     We were waiting for something to happen, for someone to tell us it would all be all right. None of us dared to think of what would happen if it wouldn’t be.

 

 

     “Miss Weasley? We need to talk to you... about Lorcan. About what happened tonight?”

     This was just another example of the fragility of the human body. It had been short-sighted of me not to consider that the person I saw every day, talked to everyday, kissed and hugged and slept with, could so easily be damaged by the outside world and by the actions of others. I should have insisted he wore some sort of protective armour, and he would not have been taken from me so quickly.

     From the moment that you allowed yourself to feel those feelings, you began the countdown to the day when that loved one would no longer be around. 

     “Would you like some coffee? Water? Something to eat?”

     The coffee was cold and disgusting, but I drank it anyway. I was starving, but I was too nervous to eat anything, or even ask. Instead I looked at all the paintings of famous healers snoozing in their frames. He was supposed to be one of them;  _his_  portrait should have been hanging here. His wide blue eyes and brown hair, so much like his twin brother’s, should have been painted and hung on the wall with the others.

     The white wall, white skin, deathly pale. Death on a pale horse.

     “Miss Weasley, it’s imperative that we talk to you.”

     I was so tired.

     “Would you like anything else?”

     I shook my head.

     “Then I need you to speak to me. I know it’s difficult, I know you’ve been through a lot, but the faster we get this done, the faster you can go home.”

     The Aurors came just after he was taken to hospital, and I endured several minutes of uninterrupted, pressurised questioning. Now they had sat me down at a table, they had notes and files and long, black cloaks. Official looking documents with stamps and signatures - even pictures of Lorcan, fingerprints...

     “Perhaps it would be better if I talked on her behalf? She is obviously still in shock.”

     Rose entered with a flurry of red curls and soft fragrance. How come she could still look so perfect under the harsh lights and the horrible circumstances - she was one of those miraculous people where her skin was still pale and porcelain and beautiful when she cried, not red and blotchy. As she spoke, a single tear fell from her eye and dropped onto the table. Perfect.

     “Thank you, Miss Weasley. That would be helpful.”

     “What would you like to know?”

     I needed fresh air, or some water - but my mouth was too parched to say anything. I gawked ungainly at Rose as she gesticulated and retold the story. The man sitting opposite was writing things down, dotting i’s and crossing t’s with such ferocity it was as if the parchment had murdered Lorcan.

     He was going to take me to a ball, a sponsor event for St Mungo’s, to celebrate our four-year anniversary. I hated those events, trapped inside some horrible dress while I had to make conversation with horrible people. He had always made it fun, though. He had always made me laugh.

     I laughed.

     Rose turned to face me, scandalized. Her hands automatically found mine, and I watched as Lorcan’s dried blood was transferred from my hands to hers. I felt her shudder, and another tear fell. She didn’t need that. She didn’t want that.

     It was too hot in the room, and my throat was dry, but I kept laughing. The Aurors were staring; they didn’t know what to do.

     How I wanted this to simply be another of Albus’ pranks, for Lorcan - fully alive and healthy - to jump out from behind a door and surprise me. I smiled bravely at the thought. Rose looked around at the Aurors, and I saw the pain in her face. Her blue eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, were dead and dark.

     “Could you get her some water please?”

     I stood up to accept it. It felt like my throat had now closed, and the laugh had diminished to a hoarse chuckle. He would soon be gone, he wouldn’t fight, he would die and I would be left all alone. The healers had said there was a small chance of him surviving... but it was miniscule.

     My body seemed to react to the loss, my legs collapsing beneath me. I was sure I would hit the floor, but I was caught. I felt familiar arms surround me as I blacked out.

 

 

     The sheets were soft, but pulled so tightly across my chest that I could barely breathe. I stared stupidly around the room, but only saw rows and rows of other beds that seemed orange in the light from the street lamps outside. Someone was snoring.

     The door opened and I fell back on the pillows and closed my eyes. It was someone in the lime green robes of a healer, and they walked purposefully towards the end of my bed. They picked up my file, and flicked through it before moving towards me. They pressed a hand to my forehead.

     I opened my eyes, just a fraction. I didn’t want to talk to more people about what had happened... I didn’t want to wake up and find that Lorcan had died when I was asleep. But the man sitting beside me - he had brown hair, blue eyes, the same strong, handsome face. He was my Lorcan.

     Relief flooded through me - he was back here, with me, alive and healthy! Lorcan was sitting on the edge of my bed, my hand clasped in his. He was here. My breathing sped up considerably, and I ripped the sheets away from me in an effort to be closer to him. I threw my arms around his chest, and let my fingers travel through his soft hair. I kissed him briefly on the cheek before burying my face into his shoulder.

     “You’re here,” I said. “You’re with me.”

     “Where else would I be?”

     I pulled away. There was something wrong. The accent was different... there was just a hint of lilt, something Irish. And as our faces were so close, I could spot the similarities and the differences - the new scars that littered his face, the stupidly sarcastic smirk that had plagued my childhood and days at Hogwarts. Just a case of mistaken identity... it had happened often enough.

     “Lysander.”

     “As you live and breathe.”

     I didn’t speak... I couldn’t. I had thought that Lysander was Lorcan. I had hugged and kissed him like he was _my_  Lorcan, given him the welcome that he wanted rather than the cold shoulder and sniping comments that I had practiced, should Lysander had ever returned.

     But here he was. And we were both stranded in the middle of a hospital room, surrounded by the sleeping. A single strand of orange light sliced through the window and illuminated his face. His brown hair was ruffled and messy, and there were massive bags underneath his blue eyes. His clothes were ripped and torn beneath the healer’s coat he must have pinched from someone. 

     Lysander was the splitting image of his brother, but he was much more rundown and neglected than I remembered him. Lysander had been gone for a long time now and, though they looked the same, I had to remind myself how different they were. 

     “And the prodigal son returns! Did you miss me?”

     I sank back into the pillows, trying to disguise the true answer to the question. Of course I had missed him - but that didn’t mean I wasn’t angry with him for disappearing. He had abandoned me, betrayed me, in a way. He had been my friend and he was meant to be there for me. And he had just left. It must have been so much worse for Lorcan.

     “I came as soon as I heard,” he said, but he sounded too impassive.

     “I’m so sorry, Dom.”

     “He’s your brother.”

     “We weren’t close, you know that.”

     “You hate him.”

     “And he hated me, but I’m still here.”

     And he kept talking about Lorcan in the past tense.

     It was definitely strange, this whole situation. Lorcan was laying somewhere, being cut up and probed and sewn back together by the healers he saw and worked with everyday. My family and friends were elsewhere; lodged in that cold, drab waiting room, desperate for news. And I was in this room with Lysander and a headache that threatened to consume my whole body.

     “Where have you been?”

     “Everywhere. I was in Germany when I got the letter about Lorcan.”  
     “And what were you doing there?”

   “Sightseeing, eating sauerkraut, you know the drill.”

     I wanted to go back to sleep, or for someone else to wake up or walk through the door, just so I could escape from this strange whispered conversation with a man I no longer had anything in common with.

     We had been friends at Hogwarts; it had been Lysander, Scorpius, Rose and I in a tight little group that sometimes allowed Lorcan to join its ranks, much to Lysander’s chagrin. We had always discussed daring trips in the Forbidden Forest while the others had begged for us to just return to the castle, to do our homework. In some ways, Lysander and I had been necessary counterbalances to Scorpius and Rose: the wild and crazy side to challenge the more conservative. In others, I had loved the way that someone so perfectly bored by everything would find me interesting.

     He had never really grown out of it, and so after years at working at some dead-end job, he had upped and left, deciding that travelling the world would be better than settling down. He had asked me to come with him, but I had refused. I had been fascinated by the sight of him looking so excited, embarking on something so terrifying and intimidating, but nothing more.

     “You could have come with me. Seen the world,” he continued.

     “I had better things to do.”

     “Of course,” he replied, laughing softly. “Did you ever tell him? About me asking you?”

     I shook my head. Once or twice, I had imagined Lysander off gallivanting somewhere, when I was bored at home, or the Wireless was playing Celestina, or when Lorcan was berating his brother for leaving his job and going around the world... but it was different. I had pictured him in sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts and socks and sandals, taking pictures of famous landmarks. Not this - not a Lysander with scars and tired eyes.

     Never, not even once, had I pictured myself at his side, or taking his photo outside some temple. Not until now, and the thought racked me with guilt.

     “Ah well,” Lysander sighed. “It’s not like you can tell him now.”

     I stared at him, rigid in my bed.

     “Merlin, Dom! You’re not as feisty as I remember.”

     I opened my mouth to shout at him - but I wasn’t sure whether I was angry at him or not, or whether it was some guilt that had taken over me and made sure I found someone else to blame, because Merlin forbid I couldn’t be the cause of it.

     Lysander could have been easily saying that I couldn’t tell Lorcan  _now_  - because he was in surgery and I was locked in this room with him. Lysander smiled again.

     “You’re his brother,” I croaked.

     “And you’re his girlfriend. Shouldn’t you be weeping by his bedside?”  
     Another retort perched on the tip of my tongue, and then disappeared. I gawked at him, struggling to find the words - I had played the weeping girlfriend... hadn’t I? I had found his body and I had rushed him to the hospital, I had fainted, I had asked breathlessly for a glass of water...

     I hadn’t cried yet, though - due to the shock, of course.

     “Just because I gave up on you doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same to him,” I said calmly.

     Lysander turned quickly to face me. I knew my words had hurt him. However much I had missed him, the fact that I had caused him pain gave me some sort of excruciating pleasure. He deserved to know how it felt. Silence spread between the both of us, and we could hear the breath of the other patients, sleeping peacefully in their beds. I waited for a witty response or the typical Lysander smirk. Nothing came. He just stared at me. 

     “You don’t know...”

     But then the door opened, and another healer stood in the doorway. Lysander automatically stood up and reached for my file, and flicked through it aimlessly. He continued to gaze down at me, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched me. His cold blue eyes bored into mine, and for the second time in about ten seconds I was startled by the severity of his gaze. But this time, I knew I wouldn’t give in. I couldn’t.

     I closed my eyes. I couldn’t shout at him, or hit him, or tell him to get out. The sleeping patients all around me, the healer at the door, made that impossible - and he knew it. I breathed slowly in and out... perhaps he would finally relent, and go see his brother, or his family.

     “Excuse me?” The other healer was speaking. I heard Lysander put down the file and walk to the end of my bed.

     “Yes?”

     “Is Dominique Weasley in this room?”

     “I was just checking up on her. Is there something I should know?”

     “Something about Lorcan Scamander? I don’t know - Healer Berridge was in a rush.”

     “I’ll wake her now.”

     The door closed and I was already sitting on the edge of my bed, my head spinning from the effort. I slipped my feet into my shoes - heels, stupidly, and I was still wearing the gown from the St. Mungo’s gala - and stood. Lysander just stayed at the end of my bed, idly tapping the file on the metal frame. The sound threatened to wake the patients up.

     “Lysander...”  
     “You gave up on me?” His voice wasn’t smug, or pleased or amused. It was just quiet, and I heard the sorrow in it. He gave a dark and appraising look, a shaft of orange light cutting across his face - it was a look that predicted disappointment; it was a look that stayed with me.

     And suddenly, all the pleasure and satisfaction I got from hurting him was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of pity that was there for a moment, before the strange mixture of stoicism and shock settled in again.

     “I didn’t want you to come back,” I lied, “I didn’t need you.”

     And I left him inside that room, in the dark, wearing the coat he had stolen and the scars he had somehow procured. A whole plague of memories - good and bad - had begun replaying in my mind and I struggled to control them. I cringed at my apparent aloofness, the coldness that had seemed to colour that encounter. I should have been nicer to him. I shouldn't have pretended to care less than I did.

     But Lorcan was more important, and I couldn’t leave him.

 

  
     I remembered the few times I brought up the idea of death with Lorcan. It had been a silly resentment, really – some stupid comment about funeral arrangements and whom Victoire would fuss over if I died - but he bitterly hated any reference to the idea that we might be mortal, like any other person on earth. The very notion that death would one day take the both of us was distasteful to him, and that I had been able to make light of it seemed like an insult. And Lorcan could never abide an insult.

     The corridors were blindingly bright and white, compared to the dark of the room where I had slept. People were still busy, bustling around me, but I didn't notice, because none of it really mattered. I could have been walking on another planet, surrounded by life forms I didn't recognize as sentient, for all the interest I showed. I needed to be there. Whatever was going on, I needed to be there.

     But, apparently... apparently I was too late, and he was gone.

     The collection of friends and relatives were still in the waiting room, dotted around the room in various states of despair. Rose and Scorpius stood up to greet me as I entered - Rose still looking prim and proper, Scorpius steely-faced - and I tried, I really tried, to hear their words of encouragement, to feel the warmth that should have emanated from their hugs.

     “It’ll be all right. We’ll help you through this, I promise.”

     I settled my blank eyes on the both of them. I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t want any of them to be here. But here they were: family. Connected in some way, forever. I shook my head, mutely, unable to find the words. Rose seemed to realize her mistake in telling me these things. Another soft touch on my arm.

     "Dom, it’s going to be - "

     We might have well have been strangers.

     I was cold, and tired, and pale. And I hadn’t cried yet.

     It was hard to believe that I had been in the same building when it happened. I had stopped in the hospital’s reception to talk to an old friend from Hogwarts - they had commented on my dress, wished me luck, hoped I had a wonderful evening. I would have liked to have a premonition. At the very least, this event that erased Lorcan from the face of the earth could have been foreshadowed in some way. I could have been there with him. I could have stopped it.

     Wordlessly, I slid down the wall, landing on the ground without thought of my expensive dress. I noticed Rose and Scorpius exchanging irritatingly private looks. They were worried about me, I realized with little emotion. They were wondering what I might do.

     A shadow fell across me, and I heard the collective gasp of my family. They didn’t know he was back. Lysander’s face – not sentimental, but rallying, expecting more from me, not allowing me to either shy away from the truth, or bow down to it in acquiescence – appeared as he knelt down in front of me, our eyes meeting.

     He opened his mouth to speak, and when he did, he no longer had his Irish accent. His hair was swept back off his face, his skin free of scars, his eyes bright and alive. I closed my eyes. I smiled as the first tears began rolling down my cheeks.

     “It’ll be all right, Dom. It’ll all be fine.”


	2. Dreams and Conciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My waking mind did not remember the substance of the memories, only the vague sense of loss that accompanies random flashes of a lost memory, but asleep, I revelled in them. I could remember every detail. It was as if real life and dreaming had become inverted.

II. DREAMS AND CONCIOUSNESS

* * *

 

There was no one around. Her heels echoed loudly in the corridor and her long gown swished on the white marble flooring. The occasional patient or healer walked passed, muttering a greeting or flashing a friendly smile. She walked quickly and her heart fluttered nervously. Tonight was their anniversary; she was excited and had heard whispers of engagement from her friends and cousins. A smile graced her features as she mumbled an apology to a dark stranger who she had knocked into, but her mood was so carefree that she ignored his grumpy retort. Her insides still dancing, she reached out her hand and opened the office door.

     At first, she thought that he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful, lying there with his eyes closed. She could hear his ragged breathing. Hers stopped when she saw the extent of his injuries and the destruction before her. She dropped to his side, cradling his head in her lap. His face was ghostly white and it contrasted terribly with the dark red surrounding him. Tears came thick and fast and her shaking hands gingerly pushed his hair away from his forehead, and away from the deep wound above his right eye. She screamed for help, the blood seeping into her dress and her hands covered in the sticky, crimson liquid.

     She checked for his pulse. It was still there, and although it was faint, it was there and she took a small comfort in that. She clasped desperately at his neck, thinking that if she didn’t feel the pulse, that it would go away forever and he would be lost. People entered and shouted orders but she didn’t hear them. She clung to his broken body and she would never let go.

     “Do you know what happened?”

     She felt her grip loosen.

     “Do you know what happened?”

     Her vision went black.

     “Do you know...”

     The transition from unconsciousness to wakefulness came easily, without any resistance. I had never been visited by quite such a vivid dream. In some ways, it seemed more real than the sight that met me now - my room, dark and gloomy. But the details were already drifting away, and soon I wouldn’t be able to recall parts of it, instead making up faces and places - eventually I wouldn’t remember any of it, and it would become a complete fabrication of the real thing.

     I got up, and switched the wireless on. Again, the strange numbness was still unyielding - but this time it was obscured by the lingering mournfulness of the dream. I couldn’t go back to sleep - instead I sat there for hours, the black sky turning from purple to red and then to orange. For the first time in years, I watched the sun rise.

     I tore my eyes away from the window and looked across the dark room. His things were still scattered across the floor, across the desk, and they were taunting me. I wanted to throw it all away, to remove all memory of him from my mind, so that the grief wasn’t so impenetrable. But I couldn’t. Instead I rose shakily from my bed, and walked towards the dresser. Handling his letters delicately, I ran my fingers over the neat writing. Lorcan’s Quidditch jumper hung on the back of the chair, and I picked it up, running my thumb over the soft fabric. I slipped it on over my pyjamas and his smell engulfed me, comforting me.

     The vague line between consciousness and sleep was blurred, and the memory plays tricks on a tired, exhausted brain. I found myself trying to remember moments from when he was alive, or when Lorcan and I first met, or lessons at Hogwarts. My waking mind did not remember the substance of them, only the vague sense of loss that accompanies random flashes of a lost memory, but asleep, I revelled in them. I could remember every detail. It was as if real life and dreaming had become inverted.

     But, the images stayed with me - they haunted me and I wondered if I was being punished. If it was punishment, it was the most exquisite form of cruelty; the scenes are too breathtakingly beautiful and alien to be real. I closed my eyes, and found myself with him.

 

 

     Another sensation awakened with me: pain. My head was throbbing - the pain radiated from the top of my temple, right down to my neck and shoulders. There was still a hint of grey about the corners of my vision; my eyes were still half closed - as they are when you are jerked from the depths of unconsciousness by the opening and shutting of a door.

     “And she hasn’t woken up yet?”

     Someone was perching on the edge of my bed, pressing a cool hand to my forehead. They obviously thought I was still asleep, and I so pressed my eyes shut again. It was Victoire - her light, twinkling tones were unmistakable - and I could imagine her, dressed up and exquisite, leaning over my bed. Her face would be a perfect picture of sympathy.

     “Has she eaten?” And Maman was here as well. She would be standing by the door, clutching her handbag, while her elder daughter fretted and fussed around me. No doubt several dishes of bouillabaisse and tartiflette would appear magically in my refrigerator and the flat would be clean and sparkling by the time I got up.

     “No.”  
     And there he was - that Irish voice that I kept imagining at Lorcan’s. I briefly remembered last night: the hospital, the Aurors, Lysander. He had carried me up the stairs. He had looked after me.

     “Did you see the article? About Lorcan?”

     “It was nice, I suppose.”

     “Are you sure you’re all right about staying here? I did offer, but I…”

     “It’s fine.”

     I was already falling back to sleep. I could smell Victoire’s perfume and Maman was muttering in French.

     “We’ll come back tomorrow, then.”

     “I’ll be gone by then.”

 

 

     “Tea?”  
     Gold and glittering lights, that’s all I could remember of the dream I was having before consciousness rudely stole me from it. There was a lot of people… some sort of party, or a wedding perhaps, and they were smiling and dancing and laughing. The air was filled with it.

     The room I was in now hardly compared to it. 

     Lysander Scamander was sitting in the armchair opposite me, holding two mugs of tea. His stubble, the terrible bags under his eyes and the scars on his face seemed more pronounced in the cold daylight. I saw him take in my appearance, his eyes lingering on the Quidditch jumper.

     Lysander had been tottering around the kitchen when I had finally emerged from my room, and he had been looking far too domesticated. He had put some biscuits on a plate. He had swept the counters down and raised his wand to wash the dishes. He had been rambling stupidly while he worked. He had even laughed at his own jokes.

     Lysander had never been good at making tea, but always did it. He never let the kettle boil for long enough - he was too impatient.

     I took one sip and choked.

     “My Portkey is tomorrow morning - one day is plenty of time to see your brother die and say hello to your parents. Molly’s told me at least twice that I’ve grown so that should just about do it.”

     I didn’t say anything in reply. I couldn’t look at him, and just stared into the murky greyness of my tea.

     I had been wearing some glorious long gown, in the dream, one that swept the floor when I danced. And he had been in his most glorious dress robes and we had been a vision.

     “Your family didn’t want you to be alone, so I stayed here for the night. Scorpius had his dad over and Rose has shacked up with Noah, so I couldn’t go anywhere else.”

     I struggled to remember it anymore - but hopefully, if all went well, I can revisit it later, in my sleep. I wanted to see him again, be with him again. Nobody here would remember him just like I would.

     I ran my fingers around the edge of the chipped mug. I was at a loss – watching Lysander totter around the room and trying to will the tears from my eyes, just so I would have some outward token of my heartbreak.

    “I wouldn’t have been able to stay here if he was alive though, obviously.”  
     It was like Lysander hadn’t comprehended the enormity of the situation. Lysander’s brother had died. Lorcan had died. His parents were grieving, and so _he_ should be grieving. I supposed Lysander kept thinking that this was all just some horrible occurrence that didn’t really affect him, and everything would be all right in the end. Why was it that he felt so little?

     Maybe it was just his bizarre way of coping with it.

     “And because you - and I quote – ‘love me like a brother',” he said smugly.

     And then the last remnants of the dream were swept away, and I was suddenly swamped by the same feeling I had when Lysander visited me in my hospital bed: I no longer had anything in common with the man I shared so much of my childhood with. We had grown apart - not because of fights or disagreements - but because I simply didn’t know him anymore. I wasn’t sure whether I liked him.

     And when I had said I had ‘loved him like a brother’, I could not remember.  
     So it was strange that he kept finding excuses to look after me, when I could barely recognise the boy from Hogwarts.

     I had supposed that Lysander would feel the same way about me - that there was nothing to salvage from a relationship that had been born out of a mutual loathing of homework and Professor Mirkwood and closeness that was long gone after years of travelling and no correspondence.

     And I was angry with him for that.

     I had stayed close friends with Rose and Scorpius, so I guessed I blamed our estrangement on Lysander. It had everything to do with him disappearing off for two years, without word, waiting and waiting for him to write to us, and for him to come home.

     And yesterday, I had told him I didn’t need him. I had told him that I hadn’t wanted him to come home. He just sat opposite me like I hadn’t said those things and Lorcan hadn’t died. I kept staring at him, willing him to say something that was vaguely appropriate.

     “Why are you being so nice to me?”

     “Do you want some dinner?” He said, easily avoiding the question as he had always done when he didn’t want to talk about something. He avoided eye contact, spoke loudly and authoritatively to show he was in command.

     “Your mother brought some food this afternoon. You were…”

     “Asleep.”  
     He smiled again. Silence fell almost instantly - an awkward pause that seemed unending but spoke volumes about our new relationship. He knew I wanted to speak to him, but wouldn’t let me. He just kept smiling.

     “I just want to know why…”

     “You need to eat something, Dom,” Lysander said. He stood up at made his way over to the kitchen, busying himself with pots and pans so the noise was loud enough to block my attempts at conversation. “You’ll feel better.”

     “I feel fine.”

     “But it’s your favourite!” He added, his voice bursting with enthusiasm that obviously wasn’t genuine. “Your mother made it.”

     “Can we not just talk?”

     A pause. Lysander took a sip of tea, and grimaced.

     “I’m sorry,” he said. Lysander kept his head low; staring into the sink like it would somehow help him through this. His tone was too aggressive, like the apology was just something that automatically came out of his mouth in response to something he wasn’t prepared for. He was headstrong, proud (annoyingly so) and sarcastic, inappropriate at the wrong moments. Apologising went against his nature, and so I revelled in it even if it felt forced.

     “What for?”

     “Lorcan. Disappearing. You know,” he said. I shifted on the sofa, pulling a blanket up across my knees. The cup of tea was left neglected on the coffee table.

     “No one knew where you were,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Not even your parents.”

     “They encourage me to be independent.”

     “You didn’t tell me.”

     “Ah,” he exclaimed jovially, and the act of sincerity fell away with it. “You’re definitely not trustworthy. Word could have easily got to Lorcan and then my parents and then probably Rose and she would have flown to Peru herself to pick me up and drop me back down here and not hear another word about it.” He laughed. The happy sound seemed to echo around the room.

     “I can’t believe you deemed me a liability,” I said.

     “Oh please, Lorcan would have found out somehow even if you didn’t tell him. He was too bloody clever for his own good.”

     I gave a sharp intake of breath. “That could be misconstrued as a compliment.”

     “Then I was probably saying it wrong.”

     He had always acted like this. At Hogwarts, the very mention of his brother would make him cold and distant, not engaging until the conversation returned to something in which he could take control and dominate, something where he had an opinion that people would listen to.

     Lysander firmly believed - at least I thought he did, judging from the hints of surprisingly deep conversation we had shared one night at the Burrow - that Lorcan got the best of everything from his doting parents - the one they had planned, the one they could afford, and that Lysander himself had sneaked into the world by clamping onto his ankle, an unwanted stranger.

     When Rose berated him for the state of their relationship - she, of all people, knew the importance of family - they would argue and argue. Scorpius and I would retreat into the background, coupled together by our mutual apathy, and watch as the two most headstrong people we knew battled it out. Merlin knows what would happen if he mentioned house elves.

     Apparently, Lysander enjoyed the challenge.

     “Why do you hate him so much?”

     “‘Did’, Dom. Past tense. He’s dead now.”

     I paled. Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, but I refused to cry in front of Lysander. He would start to pity me then and I wouldn’t be able to stand that. I was scared of him, for him - why didn’t he understand that this was hard for me? Why didn’t he empathise? Why wasn’t he with his parents, helping them struggle through this? They needed him more than I did. I didn’t need him at all.

     That was what I had said to him yesterday, and there had been a hint of doubt then - but now, it was different. He was different. He wasn’t the same person who left me all those years ago.

     Perhaps travelling, or whatever he had actually been doing, had killed some soul within him. Something had happened. The way he spoke, the way he argued - it was harsher, without the smile that usually accompanied the sarcastic comments or the wink to show he was just joking. Perhaps he had simply forgotten about us, or forgotten how to care.

     “I’m sorry,” he said again. This time was more sincere.

     “So you’ve said.”

     “I am! That was… that was uncalled for.”

     “Never usually stopped you before.”

     “I’m sorry.”

     Lysander sighed, and moved forward, away from the sink. He made some attempt to pat me on shoulder, to comfort me, but obviously he thought better of it. He returned to his seat opposite me. His face was grave.

     “You don’t want to try and understand my relationship I had with my brother,” he said, and his tone was low and threatening. “I could have killed him, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”

     “Well then you explain it to me.” I didn’t want to entertain the idea that Lysander could have killed him - that was too much to consider after everything that had happened.

     “No.” He turned away then. “I’ll have some food if you’re not having any.”  
     And there it was - the coldness and the distance that had coloured every conversation about his brother. I was no Rose; I couldn’t deal with him like this, I didn’t have the courage to argue with him. I didn’t know what to say.

     “Why are you being so nice to me?” I repeated. “Why are you here?”

     “I told you.”

     “I don’t believe you.”

     “All right, fine. You got me. I’m taking advantage of your vulnerability and your lack of Lorcan in order to pursue you romantically. I want you to see that I am capable of looking after you. I came home from Germany especially for this purpose. I want you.”

     But I almost didn’t hear him for suddenly my mind was racked with a whole barrage of images: Lysander, kissing me under the mistletoe, making me dinner, or holding my hand. I was traipsing through jungle undergrowth, not waltzing in some fancy ballroom - the world, vast and terrifying and exciting, with a hint of violence. Blood pounding, sweat, wide eyes and adrenaline.

     Not polite smiles, no small talk, and nothing controlling of every second of my life.

     I shook my head disbelievingly, and the intractable thoughts were knocked out of my mind. They were two completely different things - I couldn’t compare them. I couldn’t simply swap the surroundings and wish for it to be a completely different situation. Life with Lysander - his unpredictability - would have been complex and strenuous. Life with Lysander now was hard enough.

     And I had loved Lorcan.

     I saw Lysander’s smirk and knew that it could never be true. These corybantic thoughts just made his quiet confidence even more unbearable, and they raced out of my mind as exhaustion and tiredness settled in.

     “You’re joking.”

     He smiled. “Of course I am.”

     “Don’t worry, Dom,” Lysander said, from by the sink. “I’m only here to look after you. I wouldn’t try to do anything, like that… you know. You disgusted me enough at school, but now you’re acting the grieving widow...”

     He shook his head and made a face to show his repulsion. Strangely, it made me feel more comfortable around him than when he had been sincere. I almost smiled as the room returned to a more comfortable silence than before - there was no way I was going to get anything out of him now. Whatever had happened between him and Lorcan was over, and I didn’t have the energy to find out what it was.

     I needed to sleep, but Lysander continued to ramble. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to recall the gold glittering and the ballroom and the candles, and Lorcan’s face so close to mine, his breath on my cheek.

     “There was this fog there, right,” Lysander continued, mumbling through a biscuit, “in Peru. It just made you fall asleep, right at the top of this mountain, and there was just a huge pile of people sleeping. Weird. I thought that had happened to you today.”

     “I was tired,” I replied. He was just making conversation now, looking out of the window at the darkening sky. He didn’t want to apologise anymore, he didn’t want to talk about his brother and what it all meant.

     “It’s more than that,” he finally said. “You need to recover.”

     A moment passed, and I stared at him, confused.

     “And seeing as you’ve been up for a grand total of four hours, would you like to go back to bed?”

     My legs were weak as I walked across the living room towards the bedroom door. I opened it, then turned to say goodnight. He nodded in reply.

 

 

     I watched the sun rise again, and listened to the birds.

     He was gone by the time I had got up, left without a note, without anything.

     Lysander had stayed because I had been the best of a bad lot - the easy way out. I had been too distracted by Lorcan’s death to pester him constantly about travelling, or berate him about his cavalier attitude. He needed a place to stay and there I was.

     Not because he was sorry, not because he cared.

     I resented the way he could walk in and out of my mind, like it was his home.

     The dream ended with us dancing to someone playing the violin and Lorcan kissing me. It was a memory, not a dream; at least I thought it was. The complex mystery of those things that were conscious memory and those things that nestled somewhere in my unconscious was not something that should be fathomed so early in the morning, when the sun was rising and the birds were singing.

     I needed sleep.


	3. Unwanted Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something coming towards me, I knew. And whether it was self-inflicted or perpetrated by forces that I couldn't try to control, I had the peculiar sense that soon everything would change.

III. UNWANTED COMPANY

* * *

 

“That would be lovely,” I said.

     At least, I thought I said it. My mouth and brain never really connected anymore, and I sometimes found myself unaware of what I was saying, and what I was thinking. The words would just spill from my lips, and the thoughts would fly around my empty head, and I would only be able to come up the average, monosyllabic answer to some long winded and confusing question that I did not understand.

     A fly buzzing at the window distracted me, and my gaze followed it slowly as it attempted to free itself; it flew away from the glass, then back at it with a soft thump, repeating the sequence over and over. The recurrence of its actions were comforting, a routine, however sadistic it may seem.

     Ever since he had gone, I had lost all sense of time, and the routine I normally followed had gone with him. Instead of the dull pattern of work, eat, sleep, repeat, I found myself sitting awake for hours at night, entranced by the sunrises and sunsets, by the moon and the stars. When I slept, I was plagued with nightmares of his body and of the blood or worse; memories in which Lorcan appeared healthy and so brilliantly alive that waking hours seemed desolate. Friends and cousins had visited and, during my brief moments of consciousness, they would sit and talk to me, and I would reply incoherently, without interest.

     “Shall we say ten o’clock, then? By Flourish and Blotts? It will do you good to get out.”

     The noise of her voice startled me, and, dropping out of my daydream, I nodded. I wouldn’t remember anyway. I would be asleep, haunted by images of his face, tossing and turning in his bed, and so the stars would put me to sleep again.

     “Dom, I’m worried about you. We all are.”

     I stared at her again, my eyes counting every imperfection on her freckled face. I wonder if she actually knew what I was going through, whether she even cared. This was probably just some family commitment, and there was a scheduled and organised timetable for who would see me next. It would be an annoyance, a frustration, and an inconvenience.

     She stared so intently at me with her wide, open face - and I wondered how she could walk around so unarmed, so unprotected from the big wide world and all the dangers it heralded, just as they had come for me.

     She leant over and held my hand in an attempt at comforting me. I recoiled.

     “I’m going to bed.”

     “Write to me, all right? When you want to talk? I’ll be back from Paris on Monday.”

     I nodded. The fly zoomed out the window. I remained rigid when my cousin gave me a cold kiss on the cheek, and I could smell her cheap perfume lingering around her sickly skin. Hopefully I would be sleeping by the time the next person came, all smiles and stories, trying to distract me from everything that had happened.

     I heard the door to the flat click shut.

     I stood, my legs weak, and walked towards his room. Collapsing onto the bed, I pulled the sheets around me and the welcoming warmth enveloped me. The freckled girl had been so boring and the last night had been so filled with nightmares that sleep came quickly and easily.

     His face: smiling and glowing; piercing blue eyes, neat brown hair, strong jaw, surrounded by falling leaves and ancient trees on one of the autumn days we had spent together. He turned, and suddenly I couldn’t see his face as he hurried onwards, stretching his arms wide in the breeze - to where the leaves were falling and slight gusts of wind caused them to take flight.

     I turned to leave, and the wide expanse of inky darkness spread out before me, and it wasn’t so terrifying - but when the sound of the breeze faded, I felt an inconsolable loss.

 

 

   “Dom, wake up.”

     The curtains were opened roughly, and somebody placed something heavy on the bedside table. They were bustling around, fidgeting and making too much noise for the morning. With deliberate slowness, I opened my eyes. The light from the open window was harsh and bright, and the breeze was too cold - but the smell of bacon and eggs wafted from the tray on the table and suddenly I found myself famished.

     I pulled the covers over my face, blocking out the light and the noise. Rose was here, and in her accepted role as ‘mother hen’, she was looking after me - another in a long line of relatives to visit and attempt to help and talk to me.

     She was talking, nattering, going on and on about her work and the family, what the weather was like, and what was in the Daily Prophet. I thought she believed that this constant monologue would force me to wake up, if only in order to shut her up. Instead I rolled over, wrapping myself in the blankets. It was too cold to leave the comfort and warmth of my bed, and I wanted to go back to sleep.

     “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

     I closed my eyes, desperately trying to recollect the dream I had been having before Rose so rudely woke me up - Lorcan, sitting in front of the fire, deep in thought.

     “Can you please get up?” Rose said impatiently.

     The image of Lorcan distorted, almost disappeared with her words. He hadn’t been smiling, or laughing. His sincerity had almost frightened me into consciousness. For some reason, I wanted to guard the memory closely. It was one of the most vivid memories I had recalled since his death, and I wanted to keep it close and clear in my mind’s eye.

     The vision flickered and died, and I squeezed my eyes even tighter shut. I didn’t care that Rose was tottering around, muttering to herself. I covered my face and tried to stare into the past, hoping that if I froze the moment, and captured the feeling of deja vu in my hand, it would lead me to some precious, lost moment.

     “Dom, come on...”

     The feeling faded at her words, which I heard from seemingly far away. I opened my eyes. I peeled the covers away from my face.

     Rose Weasley was staring down at me, her auburn curls partially covering her face, a concerned look gracing her freckled features. She was as prim and perfect as she always was, but there were small differences, little changes; her hair and clothes were still elegant and tidy, and her make-up might have been flawless but it could not hide the grey bags and tired and shadowy eyes. Her cheeks were pale and her freckles were dark against her skin.

     “Molly said you would be like this.”

     I rolled over onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Bursts of light and colour appeared before my eyes, not used to the light pouring through the open window. I pressed my hands over my face, also trying to block out Rose’s nagging voice. She sounded impatient and annoyingly superior, even though she had apparently started listening to our idiotic cousin Molly. She was not usually this curt; perhaps bereavement had made her listless.

     “Get up,” Rose said sternly, “you need to do something. It’s not good for you to just lie around here.”

     I sat up slowly, only to see her picking my clothes up from the floor, folding them and placing them back into the dresser.

     “We’re going out,” she stated, walking into the next-door bathroom, presumably to clean it. I wished she’d stop fussing. My room was now spotless, and she had moved the few things of Lorcan’s that had cluttered the desk and the top of the drawers, and I was suddenly overcome by a strange fragile feeling.

     “What?” I called. Rose leant her head around the doorframe.

     “They’re voting on Mum’s law today, and I think we should be there. I want you to eat,” she gestured unnecessarily at the tray on my bedside table, “shower and then dress. We’re meeting Scorpius at the Ministry.”

     Falling back onto the pillows, I sighed. There was nothing I wanted to do less than leave my bed, and go to the Ministry, which would be filled with people I knew, shooting me sad smiles and patting me on the back while I attempted to be courteous. At least Scorpius would be there.

     I pulled the tray onto my lap and began to eat, but the eggs were cold and the bacon wasn’t crispy enough. Rose had already laid out an outfit on the end of my bed - a somber grey dress I had once worn to a job interview and a black cardigan. I slouched out of my bed and slipped into jeans and another of Lorcan's jumpers, before lingering hopelessly in front the mirror.

     There, I searched for some irrevocable change in my facade, some difference in my face that surpassed the bags under my eyes and the pale sheen of sweat. Tears welled when I could not find anything - not the mark that Lorcan had imprinted on me, nor the gaping wound he had left when he died. I had hoped there would have been some dissemblance that would have given the people around me a greater idea of my heartbreak.

     "Dom, if you're not ready..."

     I wiped them away and hurried outside the door. Rose reprimanded me for the state of my appearance but I didn't care, and I felt the familiar feeling of nausea as we apparated.

 

 

     They rose as one, their plum-coloured robes sweeping the floor. The rest of the chamber fell silent as the last few Wizengamot members entered their seats, some looking austere and serious. The faces of the witches and wizards in the very back row loomed eerily out of the darkness.

     The Minister of Magic sat, and the rest followed suit.

     “Let us begin.”

     I let my head fall against the cold back wall. It was desperately hot in the underground courtroom, and it was too busy, too filled with people. Rose was pressed against my side so closely I could hear her steady breath in my ear, and Scorpius was cramped in the row behind. One eager photographer snapped a photo, and I watched the smoke drift into the vast rafters up above.

     I hadn’t eaten enough. I was tired. I still did not understand what Rose had hoped to gain by bringing me here.

     “Law amendment proposal of the fifteenth of April, concerning the creation and authorization of Portkeys with regard to the ‘Portus’ spell, under the Decree of Magical Portkey Generation, sub-section seventeen. This also includes new guidance from the International Confederation of Wizards.”

     Rose nudged me, and pointed down into the centre of the courtroom. Her mother was standing by a table, already littered with files and documents, her plum robes neat and tidy, her bushy hair tied back in a severe bun. A pale man with brown eyes and sandy blond hair lurked near her, wearing a tattered suit.

     “This bill has been moved by Hermione Jean Weasley, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, with assistance from the Portkey Office - represented here by Henry Bartholomew Copperfield.”

     I smiled wearily at Rose. She kept whispering littler notes into my ear, about who was who, what her mother was going to say, who exactly Copperfield was - but I wasn’t listening.

     “Proceedings are conducted by Oswald Christopher Jones, Minister for Magic, accompanied by Senior Undersecretary for the Minister, Benjamin Nathaniel Goshawk. The principles of the law will be discussed and debated, and then we shall move forward and take a vote from the members of the Wizengamot. Mrs Weasley, if you would like to begin.”

     “Thank you, Minister,” Hermione said, beaming up at the gathered wizards. The photographer beside me snapped a picture. “I’d first like to remind you of the details of the law to be amended...”

     I had been here before - with Lorcan.

     “I propose, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, that this decree be amended to include tighter restriction on the creation of Portkeys using the spell ‘portus’. These restrictions would include a taboo charm upon the spell itself, as well as thorough background checks and other measures when authorising the use of Portkeys.”

     We had been sitting on the other side of the chamber, and his hand had been in mine. It had only been a few months before he died and I tried, desperately, in the heat of the present, to remember his features just as they were that day. The St Mungo’s Hospital Board had been seated where the Minister was now, and their expressions had been even more unrelenting.

     “Since the end of the Second Wizarding War, the number of Death Eaters fleeing the country through use of unauthorised Portkeys has been huge. This addition to the decree will prove useful in catching these dark wizards and bringing them back here for justice.”

     The Minister cleared his throat. “Which dark wizards, in particular? Are there any examples?”

   “There have been sightings of Rodolphus Lestrange in Brazil, his brother Rabastan in Sweden and Avery has been captured and is currently contained in Indonesia. These are just a few...”

     A lone man had stood where Hermione was now, and his green robes had been too bright for the dark and dingy room. A colleague of Lorcan’s, he had been accused of serious malpractice - so serious members of the Law Enforcement Squad and some Aurors had been called to the hearing to give evidence, to discuss post-mortem reports, to give insights on his character, and on his methods.

     “And why have we not taken these precautions before?”

     “Because we believed them dead,” Hermione continued. “These are statements from foreign officials in Brazil, Sweden and Indonesia. This issue had been brought before the International Confederation of Wizards years ago, but only received ruling a couple of days ago.”

     The man had been sentenced to Azkaban. He had tried, and failed, to convince the Board that what he had done was for the greater good, to further medical knowledge, to see how the body changes post-mortem, to see what could be done in terms of reviving them. But - nobody had done what he did, and nobody had used children.

     “Very well, Mrs Weasley. We shall open it for a vote.”

     “But I have more testimonies, and several more accounts from the Confederation. Also, I was hoping Mr Copperfield would speak on the delicacies of Portkey generation and how difficult it would be to...”

     “Your thoroughness, as always, Mrs Weasley, is impressive, but I think we have heard enough. Those in favour of the new law proposal...” The photographer on my other side snapped another photo as the vast majority of the Wizengamot voted in favour. “And those against...”

     The man had screamed as he was taken away. Lorcan had squeezed my hand even tighter, but I didn’t let it go. The Aurors had huddled in a corner, watching as he was dragged away. He had made a desperate break for it, but they stunned him easily, and he had crumpled to the floor.

     I closed my eyes, and desperately tried to recall that feeling of Lorcan’s hand around mine, of him being close to me. Rose was too close to me now, still whispering in my ear, still thinking that taking me out of the house and bringing me here would be good for me. I pulled at the collar of my jumper, and sweat pooled in my palms and on my forehead. My heart started racing, my breathing became light, and I kept gripping, gripping onto Lorcan’s hand so I couldn’t let him go, so that he’d stay with me, so that I wouldn’t be alone...

     “Dom!”

     I opened my eyes. Rose was nursing her hand, which looked red and sore. Scorpius was staring at me. There was a flash of a camera, a gabble of people talking, asking questions - the court had adjourned.

     “I want to go home.”

 

 

     Lysander was there when I got back, lounging on the sofa. A book rested on his chest, rising and falling as he slept. His bag was already leaning against the door to the spare room. I wondered when he had added casual house breaking to his already impressive repertoire.

 

 

     I had been dreaming in colours and sounds, without any discernable narrative. And yet, for some reason, I awoke flushed and gasping, with tears forming in the corner of my eyes - because during the night, it seemed as if I had passed into the land of the dead.

     Lorcan had been sitting there, staring into the fire, as if waiting for someone to give him the answer. The rest of room seemed blurred, but the flames were burning brightly in the grate. He was attracted to the vibrancy of it, but still mindful of the violence that those flames could unleash if they escaped from their confines. His face had been grave - but in this vision his features had been shimmering, in shining, vibrant colours, his outline gleaming in the dark. I had watched him in the silence - before he turned to me and kissed me.

     I had sat straight up in my bed.

     I’d had this sense before: of impending catastrophe. There was something coming towards me, I knew. And whether it was self-inflicted or perpetrated by forces that I couldn't try to control, I had the peculiar sense that soon everything would change.


	4. Galleacht

“Dom! Dom, come on! Are you all right?”

I heard knocking and someone’s voice from behind the door to the bathroom. The water from the shower was cascading down my head, blocking my ears and making any outside sounds muffled and unclear. I closed my eyes against the water. It was warm and refreshing as I massaged soap into my skin.

“Dom? Are you all right? You’ve been in there for ages!”

Rose’s voice was strained and impatient as she knocked again on the door. She had arrived early this morning, wanting to be with me when we made the journey to Galleacht for Lorcan’s funeral. Past the shower curtain, I saw a simple black dress hung up on the back of the door. 

I sat down in the shower, leaning my head on my knees, my wet hair falling around my face and shoulders. The water beat down on the back of my neck, relieving the tension in my muscles.

“I’m coming in to get you if you don’t come out in five minutes!”

Her voice was louder now, and I turned the water off. I stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel from off the radiator, wrapping it around me. Eyeing the dress again, I opened the door and stuck my head out.

“Don’t worry, Rose. I’m still alive.”

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her expression pained and her eyebrows crossed in thought. A copy of the Daily Prophet was open in her hands. She too was wearing black - a smart skirt with a white shirt. On seeing me, she smiled brilliantly.

“Thank Merlin, I was about to come in and fish you out.”

I stared at her. Surely her hair shouldn’t shine so brightly or fall over her shoulders so lightly at a time when I felt so wretched, but still there were signs of change; the tired eyes, the curl slightly out of place. Her grip on the paper was too tight, her knuckles white with the apparent effort. A plate of toast lay waiting for me on the table next to her.

“I’ll just get changed.”

I returned to the bathroom, drying my hair with my wand and getting dressed. I looked at my reflection, the dress falling to just above my knees and a black cardigan surrounding my shoulders. I felt awkward and uncomfortable in it, the material of the dress was itchy and tight and I twisted ungainly trying to adjust it. The cardigan was ugly and old fashioned, and I couldn’t remember why I had picked it out. I tried desperately to rearrange my hair, which was still lank and lifeless no matter how many times I washed it. Eventually I gave up, pulling it back into a ponytail. I had been crying almost continuously, and my eyes were sore and red. My skin was pale, contrasting with the black of the dress. It looked like I was the one who was meant to be being buried.

I pinched my cheeks to get some colour, and left the bathroom. Rose was still looking disgruntled, but I sat down her opposite her and nibbled nervously at a piece of toast, my stomach turning. I knew Rose would complain if I said I wasn’t hungry, and she would tell me to eat more, because I needed my strength. I picked up my glass of orange juice and sipping from it. It tasted sour and unhealthy and I gagged, coughing unceremoniously. Rose looked up from the Prophet, her hand patting my back.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” she said quietly. “I know today’s going to be difficult.”

“Are you all right, though?”

“I just don’t like funerals. No-one does.”

“You’ve barely eaten yourself - or let go of that paper.”

“I’m just catching up. Mum’s law has been finalized.”

She looked down at her plate again, and a faint blush traced her cheeks.

“You’re lying,” I said, pulling the paper out of her hands. She had been reading the gossip section, which was definitely unusual. Rose generally kept to the more academically stimulating articles. The only reason she would ever grace the gossip section was to scorn and scoff at little Lucy’s advice column.

But I could see what she was looking at - a large picture of Rose was staring at me in black and white print, with her continuously turning from a man with blond hair to the camera, and flashing a beautiful smile.

“Rose... what is this?” I stared at her. Her eyes were downcast, and she was fiddling uneasily with her shirt cuff.

“It was Noah’s idea,” she said quietly, leaning over and attempting to steal the paper back from me. I pulled it out of her reach and read the article below the picture of the happy couple.

“ _Mr. Noah Bryant, of Witch Weekly editing fame, is proud to announce his engagement to Miss Rose Weasley. Miss Weasley, whose parents are two thirds of the Golden Trio, is said to be ecstatic about the marriage. The wedding date is yet to be set, but Mr. Bryant informs us that ‘he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her...’”_

“Stop it, Dom. Please.”

“You’re engaged?”

Rose stared sheepishly at me, before pulling a small black box from her handbag. She opened, and there sat a huge, glittering diamond, set in a gold band.

“I haven’t been wearing it,” she said.

“Noah gave this to you?”

Rose and Noah - some beautiful, overachieving, destined for greatness couple that could make you feel small just by being in their presence. Their every movement, every gesture and word together seemed choreographed to be the most perfect it could be, as if they were both following some script. But we guessed, secretly, that it wouldn’t last, that there was something darker about their relationship that we didn’t know about.

Noah had been a Ravenclaw; one of Lorcan’s good friends and Lysander had hated him. As my cousin’s boyfriend, I had been inclined to be polite towards him, Scorpius even more so. Through our last years at Hogwarts, Lysander and I had secretly plotted Noah’s downfall from grace. Rose deserved someone better - someone like Scorpius. He had pined over his best friend for years, and we all knew it.

“You said yes?”

“I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Rose sighed again. She stood up, and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt.

“Let’s not talk about this now, all right?”

“Rose...”

“I told Scorpius about the engagement,” she began, “you were a bit... out of it. I wanted to talk to you about it, but all you did was sleep. I was scared. Lysander and me have never been that close, plus Noah wasn’t exactly his friend. So I went to... I went to... him...”

“And?”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, “I didn’t know about him and his... feelings. Nobody had told me. So I went to him and told him about Noah and me. I was happy about it. But he just stared at me, and then...”

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, now. Please, Dom.”

I held my hands up, as if in surrender. “Fine. But you know he’ll be there today... Noah, I mean. He’ll expect you to be wearing it.”

“He won’t - I said we should wait to tell everyone, until all of this has...”

“Died down?”

Rose smiled wearily. “I was going to go for something a little less tasteless, but yes. I thought he had agreed with me, but after this,” she gestured at the newspaper, at her photo still staring up at us, “I don’t know.”

“You know I think he’s a git.”

“You’ve made your thoughts about him perfectly clear.”

“Well, I guess... I guess that’s good, then.”

Lysander finally stumbled out of the spare room and into the bathroom, muttering a gloomy ‘hello’ in our direction. Rose tutted angrily, pulling on her robes and a black travelling cloak.

Lysander and I had barely talked in the past three days. He seemed to leave very early in the morning, disappear for the entire day, and then return late at night. I could hear him - sometimes I waited, breathless, in the dark of night, for some clue that would help me determine what he was up to. I asked Scorpius, but he didn’t know. Rose wouldn’t want to know.

We sat in silence, and we heard the shower being turned on.

“Why don’t you just ask him to leave, Dom?” Rose whispered. “I know that you don’t want him here.”

I ignored her.

 

 

Galleacht was beautiful. The waves crashed against the bottom of the white cliffs. A long path led up from the forest we had arrived at, lined by quaint cottages and shops. It ran all the way up to the top of the hill, where a church perched precariously on the top. Its bells rang out into the fresh breeze, and the birds sang joyously in the trees.

I looked out, over the cliff, to the sea. The fishing boats bobbed soundlessly on the blue waves. Children were looking at us from their windows, their innocent eyes wide and staring.

Although the day was warm, I shivered against the harsh wind. The sound of the waves and the bells clanged against the inside of my head. My feet stumbled ungainly on the path, clutching a stitch in my side as I lumbered up the hill. My muscles screamed with the effort. A baby was crying from an open window, its cries mingling with the shrill tunes of the birds.

I walked at the front, with Luna. Although she was wearing black, she was smiling serenely with her long blonde hair tied back in a long plait and a sunflower was tucked behind her ear. _“He’s gone to a better place,”_ she had told me on my arrival. _“Tears won’t help him now.”_

Rolf was crying. Rose and Scorpius followed. Noah trailed aimlessly, his face red and blotchy. A group of Lorcan’s colleagues, dressed in identical black suits, muttered to each other quietly - the coffin hovered between them. Lorcan - encased in black wood and silver fastenings.

What would have happened if he hadn’t been died - if he had proposed to me that night, and I had accepted? Lysander would have still been travelling. I would have still had the dull, uninteresting job at the Auror office, as well as attending the many galas and balls for St. Mungo’s fundraising. Noah and Rose’s wedding, with Lorcan as the best man and me as maid of honour. Our own wedding; me in a white dress walking down an aisle, the honeymoon, perhaps the pitter-patter of tiny feet...

If Lorcan hadn’t have been murdered, there wouldn’t have been this sudden sense of threat, of impending danger - someone out there had wanted Lorcan dead, and had accomplished it. He had done something to warrant it - something dark, something horrific judging from the way they had killed him, and now, there was a looming sense that around every corner, hidden in the shadows, there was someone waiting.

I had reached the top of the hill, and waiting at the church gate for the others. Luna smiled at me again, and I pushed the gate open. I could see Lysander, lurking at the edge of the graveyard, far away from the others. He raised his hand in greeting, but I kept my head down.

The rest of the mourners gathered around an empty grave, dark and ominous even on that sunny day. Lorcan was levitated and lowered into the hole. The sun reflected off the shining metal - the silver handles, hinges and plaque.

_Lorcan Scamander._

The two words flashed up at me, a constant reminder of who was in there. Noah began his eulogy, depicting Lorcan’s life, their memories at Hogwarts and their friendship. He mentioned me. I simply stared at the silver plaque, the tears unwilling to come. I had cried too much already, and Lorcan would have wanted me to be strong.

_Lorcan Scamander._

The graveyard was silent, apart from Noah’s quiet voice. Rolf cried loudly, and Luna held him in her arms, whispering words into his ear. I heard Rose’s muted sobs from beside me, and I squeezed her hand.

_Lorcan Scamander._

Noah had finished, and all that was heard was the wind and the soft sound of dirt on wood as they began to bury him. Luna drew her sunflower from behind her ear and threw it in. My uncles and aunts shuffled, pulled their robes tighter around them to protect them from the breeze. Their small talk before, their stoicism - I was jealous of their practiced acts of sadness.

I watched as the silver plaque was covered up, the name finally disappearing into the earth. And just like that, with a single pile of mud, he was gone. Officially. Not just sitting in some undertaker’s office, but gone; into the earth, six feet under, gone to a better place...

And then as the mourners shot their sparks into the sky, the tears came, thick and fast, down my cheeks. I would never see him again. It was incomprehensible, really, to so suddenly have your world shaken from the very foundations.

I gazed at the disappearing casket, suddenly swamped by an overwhelmingly aching sense of my loneliness, gnawing and undeniable. Even now, the congregation had started leaving, scattered around the graveyard, or walking down the road. Several people disapparated straight away, the cracking sound echoing around my head.

I sat down, not caring for the state of my dress, or for what others were doing. I reread the inscription on the black marble headstone; his name, his date of birth, the date of death, and the quote - ‘ _the pursuit of perfection is the pursuit of sweetness and light_ ’. And I realised that throughout our relationship, our lives, really, there had been moments of such pristine perfection that I had forgotten, covered up the begrudging nature of my work, or my dislike of his friends, or his resentment of Lysander. I needed to remember them - to see his face, shining with happiness.

The dirt rose from the pile, and drifted down onto the coffin, which was almost hidden from sight. After a few moments, with Rose and Scorpius still standing nearby, the grave was filled with earth, and small flowers and grass immediately emerged from the surface.

“Dom, are you ready?”

I supposed I had to be.

 

 

Lorcan’s childhood home was a picturesque cottage on the main high street, opposite a small harbour. Its front garden was overflowing with various bizarre plants, and vines were creeping around its windows and doors. Several dream catchers and wind chimes were dangling from strange fruit trees, their odd tinkling sound ringing around the tiny garden. 

Inside the house was crowded. Luna had immediately spotted me through the throngs of people - ‘ _there’s so many people I want you to meet!’ -_ and so I had abandoned Rose and Scorpius to each other’s company and followed Luna. She introduced me to millions of her naturalist friends, all with equally distant and dreamily distracted looks on their faces. One of them was even cradling what looked like a sheep’s skull with a long, curved horn in the forehead. She shoved it in my face when we met, a manic glint in her eye.

“For you, my dear, for the ghosts in your house!”

And with that, she forced it into my hands and skipped off into the living room, trails of beads glistening at her throat.

I met more of Lorcan’s friends from the hospital, all them looking equally glum. They shook my hand politely, gave me their respects and moved towards the bar. After them was the distant aunts, cousins, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and other relatives that seemed to make up the Scamander household. Throughout meeting all these new people, I kept looking for my friends. Scorpius seemed to be consistently lurking in a corner, or talking to Albus, whereas Rose and Noah were circulating, looking as ever like the world’s most perfect couple.

When I had finally given a strained goodbye to a person I knew I would never meet again, I walked across the room towards the bar, my strange sheep’s skull still clasped in my hands. I slumped into the seat next to Scorpius. Albus had disappeared somewhere.

“Where did you get that?” Scorpius asked, eyeing the skull suspiciously.

“Don’t ask,” I replied glumly. “I hate funerals.”

He grunted in agreement.

“Have you seen Lysander yet?”

”Yeah, said he had somewhere to be,” he replied.

I turned to look at him - Scorpius seemed despondent, but that was obvious. He was at a funeral. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, and his arms were crossed tightly across his chest. I could smell alcohol on his breath.

“Scorpius, are you...”

“Ah, Weasley, I know it isn’t a good time, but I was wondering if I could have a word.”

I turned around to see my boss standing in front of me, his black suit creased and old-fashioned. Jasper Higgins was tall and intimidating, his black hair and stubble streaked with grey, his skin oiling and scarred. He looked about fifty, but was actually nearer thirty-five. His faced was aged, wrinkled and tired, giving him the appearance of someone much older than they looked.

I looked at Scorpius, stooped over in his seat, his face troubled and brooding. He had been there for me, and I should do the same for him. My eyes flitted back to my boss, his stern dark eyes staring back at me.

“It’s regarding your work at the Auror office,” he said.

I nodded.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been to work, sir.”

“Totally understandable.” Higgins shuffled awkwardly on the spot. He had never been good with sympathy, even when telling people that their loved ones had died, or disappeared. He cleared his throat.

“You do know that my department has taken over the murder case and now that the personal matters have been settled, the enquiry will begin.

“And?”

“We would not want to hinder the case any further, due to the lack of evidence already surrounding it,” Higgins said. He ran a hand over his rough stubble. “The powers that be are convinced that having you working for us might hamper our progress.”

“What? How?” Scorpius said. I squeezed his arm.

“Well, Malfoy - they think that Weasley might get involved on a more emotional level, which can be difficult in interviews with suspects and therefore the development of a case.”

“I haven’t been involved with interviews or any case since I joined the Auror office,” I managed to say. “I’ve been doing paperwork for four years.”

“And paperwork is a very important part of the process, and where most mistakes happen. Say you were dealing with evidence that left a paper trail, you could easily...”

“What? Get so emotionally overcome that I decide to go out and take it out on someone?”

Higgins stepped back, clearly affronted. I knew he really wanted to respond aggressively - as he did with a suspect who wasn’t cooperating, or when he was particularly bored with someone - but people surrounded him. He was at a funeral, where people were crying, where he had to show at least a modicum of respect. He clenched his jaw, and exhaled deeply.

“I don’t think it’ll happen quite like that, but...”

“You’re going to fire her?” Scorpius asked, his voice angry. Some random old relative nearby stepped away from us, clearly shocked, and the other voices in the room died down.

“Of course not, Malfoy. Miss Weasley will be welcomed back to the Auror office once everything is dead and buried.”

“Oh, wonderful choice of words, sir,” Scorpius said, scathingly. I felt a tear escape.

“Here is a letter from the head of department, explaining everything,” Higgins said, and I felt him slide a piece of parchment into my hand, “let us know if you need anything.”

He left shortly after that, but only after awkwardly patting me on the shoulder and muttering his condolences. Scorpius mumbled angrily in the chair next to mine, as he grabbed the letter from my hand and ripped it open. He began to read it, either frowning, or staring at the letter in apparent indignation. He would read out various sentences under his breath, murmuring and gesticulating - dispersed with the occasional swig from a glass of firewhiskey.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, finally throwing down the piece of parchment. “They can’t make you quit just like that.”

“I don’t know, Scor,” I replied, “maybe it’s the right thing to do.” Going back to work had been the least of my worries, but right now, returning to my little cubicle with nothing but an angry manager and several million piles of paperwork seemed desperately unappealing.

“Like hell it is - this is... this is some form of discrimination!”

“It makes sense, though. I’d just mope around anyway.”

Scorpius stared at me, obviously surprised. I picked up the letter from his lap, folded it, and put it inside my robes. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and so I closed my eyes, and listened to the babble of conversation about me. Someone was still twittering on about ghosts in people’s houses, even nargles, and, through the noise, I could hear Noah’s crisp and pronounced voice reminiscing about his time at Hogwarts with Lorcan.

_“So, so bright - outstripped me in every single subject, such a mind.”_

I could hear Rose as well, agreeing with him, comforting him, asking him insightful questions. Then, Scorpius’ voice, much clearer and closer...

“Do the family approve of him?”

“Scorpius, don’t do this to yourself.”

“I want to know,” he persisted. I opened my eyes.

“Of course they do,” I replied, rather harshly. “We’ve never had an editor in the family before. Had everything else, mind you: dragon keepers, Quidditch players, joke-shop owners...”

“Plus, they’d have spectacular looking babies.”

I turned to see Lysander standing in the doorway, his black jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirt untucked.

“Where have you been?” Scorpius asked.

“Around,” Lysander replied simply, sweeping the glass out of the blonde man’s hand. He eyed how much was left. “How many of these have you had?”

Scorpius stared back defiantly.

“Well, obviously enough then. No more moping. Rose is never going to go for a drunk.”

“Bit harsh, don’t you think, Lysander?” I asked.

“It’s the truth,” he answered quickly. “How about we get out of here? Scorpius needs to go home.”

“Right. Yeah. He can stay at mine.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lysander said.

 

 

The room was dark, the curtains closed against the moonlight. Scorpius lay asleep and snoring, just a bundle of sheets and blankets that rose and fell gently, his breathing was the only sound in the room. Lysander sat on the edge of the bed.

His head was cradled in his hands, his cheeks hot and wet beneath his fingers. His eyes looked red and his hair was dishevelled and dirty. He was still wearing his white shirt and smart black trousers, but they were crumpled. There were yellow sweat stains at the armpits, and the fabric was thinning in places, with buttons missing. The jacket was too small, the seams splitting around his arms.

Scorpius moved in his sleep, and the sound seemed to pull Lysander out of his reverie, snapped him back to reality. I had only seen him like this once or twice before, and in those moments of vulnerability, I would see him close his eyes, cover them with his hands, and look as if there was something clawing at his brain.

My hand slipped on the door handle, making it rattle. He turned to look at the door, and in a second, he had realised that I was there. His face was cold and almost lifeless in the dark, with light reflecting off the wet tracks that ran down his cheeks.

I had never been the one to try and understand Lysander’s deeply enigmatic nature, like some constant rearranging puzzle. Rose had always tried and failed, searching for some sort of way to mother him, to look after him, but it had never bothered me. Sometimes I felt like he’d been gone his whole life - in exile, at war, away from the place he was supposed to be - and he was pining to be returned. Homesick for a place he had never been.

The way he had flittered in and out of the flat, even during the funeral - he left people so easily, his affections waning fast with the renewed search for something more and more exciting. It had been that way in school; the sense of always being left behind, but left with the constant comforting presence of Rose and Scorpius. He seemed too big for his surroundings - Hogwarts, with its many rooms and sprawling grounds seemed too small for him. He longed to be out in the real world, with real people, not indulging in petty remarks or the everyday dealings of his classmates and, to a more insulting degree, his friends.

But seeing him alone, in the dark, crying. I saw him now in a light that changed everything - he no longer seemed fearsome. I wanted to pull him close to me, look questioningly into his eyes, and try and then fail to read the thoughts that were forming and disintegrating behind them. 

I opened my mouth to speak, but instead he stood up and closed the door.

 

 

I stared out of the window, onto the Muggle street outside, at the bustling traffic, the people dressed up in their coats and scarves against the unusually bitter night. Blurs of orange and red and green as the cars went passed, as the lights changed, as people kept moving and changing against the dark of the night sky.

_I’ve been grieving._ When I said it out loud, it was strange; that such a small word had such a large effect on me. Saying it meant I was admitting it, succumbing to it, and I didn’t want that. I had been grieving, but it hadn’t felt that insignificant. I thought grieving was crying for a dead rabbit when you were four or weeping silently for some distant relative - but this felt like living in a void, some timeless space filled with memories and dreams and confused interactions coloured with red and greys, with blood and tears, with the cold pallor of lifeless skin.

He had gone.


	5. Evidence

They pushed at my back, with their briefcases digging into the back of my legs and their dark suits cutting deep contrasts with their pale faces. The whir of the escalator was drowned out by the early morning clamour of trains and buses, and the announcements barked out of old, tinny speakers; enough noise to waken the dead, but no to waken these people.

They came for the mourning - like yesterday, some cruel mockery of the funeral. The train unloaded sad groups of people onto the platforms, or they came in great cars that shone with mournful purity, carrying briefcases like little coffins. Some wore heavy overcoats, and looked like crows, or dark angels come for the burying. Some looked alone, following the others, like undertakers’ mutes - and each wearing a veil, a grey-faced veil, blank and staring, born out of weariness and cold. The cold was crisp and sharp as flint, and cut at the faces of commuters. It pierced their overcoats, and turned their white collars into sharp, icy rings around their necks.

I wrapped my coat tighter around myself - but the heat was contraband, stolen from my bed and someone’s old embrace and horded against the chill.

I had left the flat, with Scorpius snoring from the spare room and Lysander lying still on the sofa, his chest barely rising and falling, and his breathing quiet. For a second, I had paused, a hand just poised above his face. I had wanted to move his hair away from his eyes, something I used to do when Lorcan was alive and sleeping beside me, but the wind rattled the windowpane, and my hand had jolted back. They were not the same. He had not somehow returned to me.

I had intercepted the people just on their way home - smudged make-up, heels in hand, reddened lips - the smell of alcohol steaming off their exposed skin. It would be strange, to go back to that... I suddenly felt as if I was old, and that I had lived through too much, that they wouldn’t accept me back. I had no wrinkles, no hunched back, but I felt slow and decrepit, the victim of many years of loss.

It was difficult to understand how I had managed to end up on the Underground, crammed on a seat between an old, grey-faced commuter on his mobile phone, and a woman struggling with a screaming, red-faced baby. I must have bought some sort of ticket, or maybe jinxed someone - because I remember a corpulent man with a hat and a ticket machine looking expectant. My brain flicked between these images and other, more disturbing thoughts - constantly changing, unable to focus on any one thing. My feet had wandered of their own accord, treading old paths to old haunts, up Diagon Alley, the familiar route to work and even - the most disturbing - looking up to find the old mannequin of Purge and Dowse, Ltd. It had blinked at me as I pressed my hand up against the glass.

But I couldn’t go back there, not to where he worked. Not to where he died. I had turned around and disappeared into the depths of the nearest tube station, along with a horde of businessmen and civil servants.

The train slowed, and there was the usual scramble to get to the doors. The metallic ding as they slid open was almost indiscernible as people pushed onto the station platform. I followed idly, almost the last to leave, the door shutting just behind me. The train zoomed away again in the blur of red and white and yellow, some passengers’ faces frozen beyond the glass. With a heavy breath, I trudged up the stairs, and scuttled along the pavement that skirted the blackened arcades of Victoria Station - my step uncertain as a fresh blast of cold wind dashed against my cheeks.

I had always felt the strange disconnection that followed the complete desertion of the Wizarding world, the strange incomparable feeling of changing into Muggle clothes and stepping out into their world, into their streets, without the obvious protection of your wand. Nowhere were the newspapers that screamed of St Mungo’s murders, or mysterious deaths. There were no secret whisperings, nobody knowing your name - no reminders of what faced me upon my return. 

I fumbled ungainly with some Muggle money and attempted to buy a coffee. The young girl - her eyes encircled with black make-up, a silver nose ring protruding from her skin - stared at me curiously, before warning me the cup would be hot. Her lip curled, and I wondered how idiotic she thought I was.

“Thank you,” I replied bitterly, and the words were almost lost in my throat, frozen onto my tongue. She nodded, and then looked expectantly at the next customer, and I was bustled out of the way. I drunk my coffee as I wandered back home - it was too cold, and the bitterness stung at my throat. Hopefully Lysander would have left by now.

 

 

“Oh, you’re leaving.”

He was perched awkwardly on the stairs leading up to my flat, opening the gate onto the street. He only looked shocked, only looked guilty, for a second, before his face resumed that same cold indifference, with that same infuriating smirk. He was nothing like his brother.

“I thought you were still asleep.”

Lysander Scamander hitched his rucksack further onto his back, his eyes avoiding me. He was still wearing his crumpled black suit and his tie was hanging around his neck. There were still great grey bags under his eyes, and his new scars stood out more clearly in the early morning gloom. His breath clouded in front of his face.

“So, where are you going now?” I asked quietly. I picked at the peeling paint, scrunching my nose against the smell of urine and the overflowing bins from the café next door.

“My friend’s in Indonesia. Said he could get me some work.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Nothing, nothing - I just... I just figured that, you know....”

“What?”

I pulled my keys from my pocket and opened the gate. He didn’t move - there was still no change in his façade - just a flash of that creeping smirk that still irritated me.

“I’ll see you later then,” I said, holding the gate open for him.

He stepped out onto the street. The comfortable distance between us returned - it was always safer to have him at arm’s length. I fumbled with my keys.

“A letter came for you, by the way,” he said.

I turned away from him. The noise of the street outside - of cars, the rumble of buses, the bustle of people - seemed to flood the small entrance, and Lysander seemed to disappear into the crowd. I ascended the stairs, and slotted the key into the lock.

He was always such a fleeting presence.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

I opened the door. The warmth of my flat was already inviting, and someone had made coffee. I didn’t want to stay out here, in the cold, with Lysander lurking in the shadows. I was already feeling tired. I hadn’t slept well last night - dreams of me being with Lorcan, deep underground, close together, sharing the same air, the same heat...

“Scorpius might want you to,” I replied.

“He’ll be fine,” he muttered.

And suddenly the gate was closed against the hordes of people, and the sun was up and shining, and Lysander had disappeared into the crowd.

 

 

The letter was waiting for me on the kitchen table - dark blue ink on heavy, yellow parchment. My name was written in curvy, elegant handwriting, but there was no address. 

Letters from work were usually stamped with some sort of official seal, and the ones from family and friends were recognisable because of their handwriting. I turned it over in my hands and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of parchment, folded neatly.

_Dear Miss Weasley,_

_In this letter, I send my commiserations and my regret upon hearing the news of the late Lorcan Scamander. He was a trusted and accomplished young man in the field of healing, and I believe that St. Mungo’s has lost a very fine man._

_I am also remorseful to discover that the Auror office has made you unemployed due to your possible involvement with the case concerning Mr. Scamander’s demise. However, it is regarding this that I am writing to you. I have a proposition. One of my employees has recently left my services due to unseen circumstances and we have already headhunted you as a possible candidate for the post._

_I cannot tell you what the job would involve, as this letter may become lost in delivery. The operation we are running for the Ministry is top secret, and, should you decide to accept the position, an associate will come to you and discuss the matter with you in person._ _Again, my sympathies concerning Mr. Scamander, and I do hope that you will accept the offer._

_Yours truly,_

_Iago Debole_

I read it over and over again, inspecting every inch of the handwriting and the carefully crafted signature. I wondered where I had seen or heard the name before, my mind trawling through the hundreds and hundreds of records I had been ordered to file during my time at the Auror office. If Debole were leading a top secret Ministry organisation then surely the Aurors would know about it. I hardly doubted that my uncle or any of the top Auror employees would spill confidential information like that to a mere assistant, but some things do get filtered down through the system. You hear names, places and tiny snippets of mission plans. And Teddy had always liked to boast.

I flipped the paper over for a sign of a seal or mark depicting from where the letter was sent. I looked over the type of parchment and the envelope. There was nothing. It was bare. I re-read it.

Still nothing.

I put it back in its envelope and left it on the table. I could wait. I needed sleep. I stumbled towards my bedroom, my hand reaching for the doorknob, before there came a sharp knock at the door. I ignored it - they, whoever they were, could wait - but still, they persisted.

“Who is it?”

“Aurors, open up please.”

I opened it and the sunlight from the corridor blinded me, and I raised my hand against the light.

“Hello,” I murmured. Two men were standing in the corridor.

“Are you Dominique Weasley?”

“Yeah... what do you want?” I asked, restraining a yawn.

“My name is Michael Waterson. This is my associate Isaac Hawkins. We are from the Auror office.”

All thoughts of sleep raced out of my mind as I looked up at the two men. They were both tall, with dark hair and stubble decorating their wrinkled, grey skin. Their robes were tatty and misshapen, and one of them carried a battered briefcase. I recognised them vaguely from work. I wrapped my jumper tighter around me.

“What do you want?” I repeated.

“May we come in?” Waterson asked.

I nodded and held the door open for them. They stood awkwardly for the minute before I gestured to the table and they sat down.

“We believe that Lysander Scamander is a friend of yours.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer this, so I croaked out a ‘yes’.

“You do know that his twin brother died about two weeks ago. It’s been all over the papers.”

I felt my throat close and I blinked hurriedly.

“Yes of course.” My voice sounded strangled. Waterson lowered his head in an attempt at a courteous act of sympathy. It came up so quickly afterwards that it just looked like he had a twitch. Part of me wanted to laugh.

“Mr. Scamander has been accused of his brother’s murder.”

I froze.

I wanted to tell the two Aurors that it wasn’t true. I wanted to tell them to leave and find the real culprit. I wanted to tell them that they were wrong, that Lysander missed his twin brother more than ever and that he couldn’t have possibly murdered him. Instead, the accusation made me think of all the conversations I’d ever had with Lysander since his brother’s death. 

_“I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”_

“We have put out a warrant for his arrest.”

I was desperate to imagine that if I just ignored the nagging doubt in my brain, it would just go away. I had no idea why I was so quick to believe them.

_“I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”_

“You agree that Lorcan Scamander was a very well-liked man?” Waterson asked. “He didn’t seem to have many enemies. However, we discovered from Mr Bryant and another source that Lorcan and his brother were far from on speaking terms.”

I sat deadly still, and my breath became heavy. I had to tell them that it was a lie, that Lysander was innocent.

“Lysander didn’t kill anyone.”

“The team also found evidence from the murder scene that backs up this theory.”

“Circumstantial, surely,” I replied.

“We don’t believe so. And from past reports of Mr. Scamander’s character, it is safe to say that he is definitely capable of it,” Waterson finished. My mouth had dried up and my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth.

“He is proving to be a very difficult man to track down,” Hawkins continued.

“Do you mind if we take a look around? There might be some clues as to where he went next.”

I nodded. The two men stood up and began moving around the living room. I remained sitting, but my eyes followed them as they made their way around my flat. They looked over the pile of old newspapers and unopened letters, growing every morning by the window as the owls delivered things I did not care to open or read. One of them poked his head into the spare room. Waterson bent down and looked in the grate, seeing whether any piece of evidence had been burnt. Satisfied that nothing had, he stood up and spotted a photograph on the mantelpiece.

“Is this yours?” He picked it up, and flashed it briefly at his colleague. I stared at it for a moment, admiring the small picture sadly. 

It was a picture of a young Luna, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Rolf was standing at her side, tall and proud. Two small boys were wrestling at their feet. They were identical, both with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. From a glance, you could tell which one was Lorcan. His shirt was tucked into his shorts, and his hair was parted neatly. Lysander was messy, with dirt on his bare knees and a rip in his jumper.

Memories of the two boys together at school or at the Burrow or at their home flashed through my mind. I couldn’t think of a time when Lysander and Lorcan had ever not been enemies. In the picture - when they were as young as five - they were fighting. And Lorcan always seemed to be the one who came out on top. I never thought that Lysander could kill him simply because he was jealous.

I never thought that Lysander could kill him at all. He obviously thought that he was capable of it - he told me himself, just after Lorcan had died, just after he had returned. Lysander had been travelling for two whole years; he had not told anyone where he had been or where he was going. Nobody could have known where he had been. 

_“I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”_

“Why do you need to know that?” I asked.

“Just answer the question, Miss Weasley,” Hawkins obviously bored. He had obviously dealt with this before. I noticed how similar the two men looked, and how awkwardly they were standing in the middle of my living room.

“I’m an Auror too,” I told them. The two Aurors looked briefly at each other. Waterson shuffled uncomfortably.

“Higgins told us we weren’t meant to disclose any information to you.”

“But you are meant to be questioning me,” I reasoned. “Surely I should know some of the facts. I wouldn’t be able to help you otherwise.”

Waterson looked at Hawkins, who nodded.

“A copy of this photograph was found near the body of your late - ” he struggled to find the right words. “It was found in the office of Lorcan Scamander on the night of the murder.”

“I’m sure he had a copy, I don’t - ”

“Lorcan Scamander did not get on with his brother, you know it, and we know it. Why would he have a photograph in his office of someone he despised?”

“Why would Lysander have it then? If you’re going to apply that logic, then it works both ways,” I said.

The two Aurors glanced at each other. It was common knowledge that the two brothers didn’t get along, but Lysander couldn’t kill anyone. I’d seen him throw a punch at a self-involved Slytherin after a Quidditch match, even but he could never kill a person. Not Lorcan. Not him.

_“I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”_

“Then who else would have had it? Are you suggesting that some other member of Lorcan’s family wanted him dead? Luna? Rolf? Such lovely people. Tell me, Miss Weasley - who is more capable of murder? Who would have had appropriate motive?”

“No... I don’t...” I mumbled.

“Do you know where he was that evening?” Hawkins said, the quill scribbling distractedly. He had come to see me and I had thought he was Lorcan - the two of us, alone, in the hospital. It must have been hours, maybe minutes, after he had done it. Maybe there had still be blood on his hands.

“Miss Weasley?”

Before the Auror’s voice had been calm and soft and caring, it had been the way you talk when speaking to someone who was ill and dying, or someone who was very young. I had got used to people talking to me like that. Now his voice was probing, on the verge of angry and I shied away from him.

“He had been travelling,” I told him quietly. “He had returned when he found out his brother had been attacked.”

“So you admit that he returned on that day?”

“Yes.”

“And nobody knew where he had been?”

“No, nobody knew.”

“So he could have had the opportunity?”

“I suppose, but that doesn’t mean - ”

“So she agrees. That’s his opportunity means was obviously by wand.”

Waterson had turned to his colleague. The two Aurors were talking as though this case meant nothing to them, as though if they caught Lysander it would just add to an impressive score of defeated dark wizards. Lysander wasn’t dark. Lysander wasn’t evil. Lysander couldn’t hurt a fly.

Apart from those scars and scratches on his body told otherwise. He had been in some terrible fight when he had been abroad. Lysander had been away for two years. Nobody knew what could have happened in that time. Perhaps he killed someone. Perhaps he killed Lorcan.

I lowered my face and forced my mind to think otherwise. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

“We just need motive,” Waterson said casually. 

They both looked at me inquisitively.

“It’s well known that they hated each other,” Hawkins continued. “But for what reason...”

I knew that they were playing some awful Auror mind trick on me. I’d seen it many times before through my job. I was even trained to progress my powers of persuasion.

“You are a very pretty woman, Miss Weasley.”

I felt my skin crawl uncomfortably as the two men looked at me. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You know how sibling rivalry works, Miss Weasley. I’m pretty sure Mrs Lupin would like to share some stories with us - ”

“Stop it.”

I had interrupted him.

_“I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me.”_

“This isn’t the only thing working against him, Miss Weasley. There was another healer,” Waterson consulted his notes, flicking through the pages. “A Healer Barwick, who works in the office next to your... to Lorcan Scamander’s office.”

I hadn’t heard of them.

“She heard them arguing the very night Scamander was murdered. Someone with an Irish accent, someone saying a lot of horrible things, someone reciting a lot of complicated spells...”

_“I could have killed Lorcan...”_

“Miss Weasley?”

That was it - a concrete piece of evidence that put him firmly in the firing line. Lysander could have killed Lorcan.

I didn’t want to believe it but I had to. Healer Barwick had heard them arguing the night he was murdered, the night Lysander returned - he must have slipped out only moments before I arrived, before I saw the body. They had evidence against him. No doubt the picture slipped out of his pocket when he was withdrawing his wand, ready to...

I felt like I was about to be sick.

The two men were still standing. I was still sitting. I was gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard that my knuckles were white. I bit my lip nervously, and I tasted blood. I would talk to Lysander, if I could find him. He would describe where he was that night and he would tell me that he didn’t kill his brother. He would explain to these two Aurors that he was nowhere near his brother, that they didn’t argue, that the photo was merely a coincidence and that Lorcan had been keeping it hidden in his desk in hope that his relationship with his twin might be rescued.

It all sounded too perfect.

“Would you be able to testify that at a Ministry hearing?”

“Do I have to go to one?”

“Well, actually, Miss Weasley...” Hawkins began.

“Of course not. Not when you are in such a... delicate state,” Waterson continued patronisingly, and his eyes flashed horribly. I stood up and opened the door, holding it open so that they could both leave.

“Goodbye gentlemen.”

They picked up their briefcases and their notepads and left, their long, shabby cloaks whispering on the kitchen tiles. I closed the door with a snap. The sunlight that had awoken me that morning had now faded and the clouds were rolling in. Their visit was over so quickly that I wasn’t sure whether it had happened. I wished that it hadn’t. 

 

 

Lorcan was the prize for my survival through the ordeal: his face, alight and alive, in dreams and memories, not confined in photo frames. I was looking at him as though I was standing at the end of a long tunnel, or peering at him through a telescope. His image seemed rounded at the edges, seen through a lens.

His fingers trailed along the mantelpiece, collecting smears of grey dust. His eyes flicked from one photograph to another - some made him smile, and some he would pick up and look at, wanting to get a closer look. He had chosen one at the very back.

_“It’s my brother and I.”_

His voice seemed to echo, bounce off the walls of the tunnel and filter back to me. He turned, and smiled.

_“We were five, and already fighting,”_ he continued. _“Dad took it. In Galleacht.”_

The light began to fade, and I tried to walk towards him, and his voice became clearer.

_“He asked me for a copy,”_ he said, _“just before he left.”_

I was running now, stumbling and falling, but he was moving away faster now. A breeze played around my hair and clothes.

_“I gave it to him.”_

The wind grew stronger, pushing against my face. My eyes were watering, stung by the salty air. My feet were pounding along the ground, and I couldn’t stop. I stumbled on the wet grass, slipping on the bare chalk. There was a shriek of laughter and a cry of pain - two boys wrestling on the cliff top, dangerously close to the edge.

Lysander had always lived so precariously on the earth’s surface that I felt he might, at any time, fall off into a void, some dark abyss, off the edge of a precipice. I feared that he had no natural gravity to hold him on. I feared he had no anchor.

_“I won the fight,”_ Lorcan said, and I was falling.


	6. Fond Farewells

The Burrow loomed eerily out of the darkness, the many floors and windows peering down at me. I lurked in front of the door, accidentally tripping over the thousands of broken broomsticks and boots that littered the front porch. I looked up quickly to see if anyone had seen me.

I could see them. The lamps in the kitchen were lit, and they were sitting around the table, heads bent in earnest discussion. Teddy and Victoire were looking concerned, her hands wrapped around his upper arm. Rose listened intently. The fact I had to face them, outside the comfort of my own home, with all of them looking so much more alive and awake and passionate about what had to be done - I couldn’t tell them what I was thinking, that Lysander could have really done it, that there was a possibility they were planning to aid and abet a murderer...

I ran my fingers through my hair, scratching the back of my neck. I shouldn’t have come here, but similarly I couldn’t have stayed at home - not with the photos waving and smiling at me from the mantelpiece, the memories littered all over the flat, Lorcan’s clothes, books, notes and scent. And his brother that had killed him - asleep on the sofa, making me tea - maybe, somehow, his presence was taking over that of Lorcan’s.

He would always come to the Burrow - he was in trouble now, and the information from Harry or Ron, even Teddy, would be vital to him.

And what if he was guilty? What if I walked into the Burrow, confronted him, and he told me that he didn’t have an excuse, or any sort of alibi for the night of Lorcan’s death? What if he confirmed my suspicions?

I shook my head, trying to knock the frenzied thoughts out of my mind. I should trust him. He was my best friend once. After everything that happened, and whatever we are to each other now, I should be able to trust him. I paced up and down one last time, willing myself mentally to go in. It won’t be that bad, I told myself. Lysander would explain to me where he was that night and he would explain to the Aurors. The case would suffer a minor setback, but that was recoverable. They would find another suspect.

And with that, vaguely optimistic thoughts flimsily covered the discordant theories of Lysander’s guilt - but the heavy weight in my stomach stayed and my breath still came with difficulty. I took a step towards the door, my fingers reaching for the handle.

“Dom!”

Scorpius was running along the drive towards me.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Well I was just about to...”

“Did you hear about Lysander? I can’t believe they think he did it.”

“I know.”

“You don’t sound angry,” he said accusingly.

“I am!” I protested weakly, “I’m pretty furious.”

Scorpius eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know something?”

“No, it’s just that...” I faltered. I could feel water from the damp grass seeping into my shoes. “Do you know where he is?”

“No. Let’s just go,” Scorpius said exasperatedly, pushing me out of the way so he could open the door. “I told Rose that I was coming.”

People were interacting outside of my world - people were continuing their everyday lives, meeting up and talking and seeing each other and the world. Scorpius’ routine of was still upheld - he had something else to do outside of this tumbled mass of grey confusion, where Lorcan was dead and Lysander had killed him.

“Dom, come on...”

He had stormed ahead and was holding the door open for me. I was already unjustly angry with him; upset that he didn’t appear to be going through the same internal struggles that I was, offended that it didn’t seem to shake him as much... He wasn’t caring for me, wasn’t looking after me and asking me how I was. The thought of Scorpius and Rose meeting up having these little chats without me, leaving me out, leaving me _alone,_ made me feel even worse.

I stopped still in the middle of the path, hot shame flushing my cheeks, bile rising in my throat - I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t blame Scorpius. He was affected - you could tell, just in the slump of his shoulders or the bags under his eyes. Guilt mingled with indignation and the constant, underlying nerves and I felt faint.

“Scorpius, thank Merlin...”

Someone pulled at my sleeve, and Rose was guiding me down the path, holding open the door for me, sitting me in a chair. The warmth was welcoming. Rose was uncharacteristically ruffled, and her hands shook as she placed a cup of tea in front of me.

“Dom,” Victoire said breathlessly and pulled me into her arms, engulfing me with her French perfume and long, blonde hair. Teddy raised a hand in greeting.

“What’s happening?” Scorpius said. “Where is he?”

“I got a letter,” Teddy piped up, “Lysander wanted to know what was going on, what I knew - he wanted to ask me some questions in person. Harry and Ron are trying to sort things out at the office. The rest of them - Molly and Arthur as well - are at Shell Cottage.”

“He’s still coming here?”

“Later,” Victoire said. “We need to speak to him about what happens next.”

I looked at my sister. “And what is that? What is happening next?”

“If Harry can’t do anything at work, then... I don’t know.”

“I’ve written to Louis,” Victoire added. “Maybe he could help him.”

I picked up the cup of tea and took a sip, the hot liquid scalding my throat. Guilty people didn’t run.

“And what is the likelihood of that? Of Harry not being able to sort everything out? I mean, he’s innocent so I’d guess it’d be pretty easy to prove.” Scorpius said. I scoffed.

“Dom, remember he _is_ innocent.” It was Rose. I opened my eyes again and looked at her, standing next to Scorpius. She had done nothing to me - nothing at all, and yet I felt the same uncontrollable anger flow through me, as if she had committed some terrible wrong against me. Why didn’t they understand what was going on? Why couldn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they see through the smirks and the sarcasm to the cold-hearted, wretched man that Lysander truly was?

“How do you know?” I asked her, and I saw her flinch away from me. Scorpius merely stared at me.

“Dom, you can’t say that,” he said. The sight of them together made me want to be sick. I could feel tears coming to my eyes.

“Don’t I?”

Rose grasped at my hands again, trying to pull me into her arms. Scorpius just continued to stare at me, disbelief etched all over his face.

“Rose...” he whispered, urging her to do something.

“Dom, come on,” she said softly, stroking my hair, “I know you are upset. We all are. You just need to calm down. You’ve been through a lot.”

I couldn’t stand it. I hated that they thought I was incapable of doing anything by myself, that I doubted Lysander because of my ‘fragile’ state. I took a step back, repulsed by her patronising tone.

“Dom,” she continued, “What did he tell you?”

“That night... or the day after, maybe... he told me he did it.”

“You’re lying,” Scorpius said, and his tone was malicious, and hot indignation swept through me once again. I couldn’t stand to look at his face, at his robes so stained and frayed, and Rose standing so closely next to him; the two of them, a team - together.

“He told me. He told me he could have killed him!”

Rose pushed my hair behind my ear, her hands on either side of my face.

“People say they _could_ do a lot of things - doesn’t mean they actually accomplish them.” She was crying - her voiced cracked and her hands were shaking.

“They have evidence,” I said quietly. “They know he did it.”

“He’s one of your oldest friends, Dom,” Scorpius shouted, and for a moment he possessed the same violent quality that Lysander had shown during the years at Hogwarts - shouting at his brother, arguing with Rose, and the worst, most shocking times when he stared at me, blamed me for something out of my control. The memory made my insides squirm.

“Scorpius, please,” Rose pleaded. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s just confused because he’s been accused of Lorcan’s murder. It would have been different if it was anybody else.”

“So you’re saying that he’s going to be killing other people?”

“No, Scorpius, you have to listen to me -”

I watched them bickering and arguing about me. I didn’t care what they thought; the nagging and doubting thoughts that had clouded my brain were gone. Lysander was running away from it all. There was the evidence that the Aurors found and his own admission. Lysander had done it.

“Scorpius, you don’t understand. I’m agreeing with you. It’s just that Dom has been through a lot. She can’t be thinking straight,” Rose reasoned. They both looked at me encouragingly. 

“I hate that you think that,” I said, and they both visibly deflated. 

“What evidence do they have?” Teddy asked me quietly. “It has to be circumstantial.”

“I’m not sure it is,” I said, while Rose and Scorpius shared another indignant look.

“You’re not sure?” Scorpius asked angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Then how can you jump to these conclusions?”

“Scorpius...” Victoire pleaded.

“How long till he gets here? Lysander, I mean...”

“Late,” Rose said, apparently grateful for the change of subject. “Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll wake you if anything happens. I think that’s for the best. You look shattered.” 

She was trying desperately to get me back on side, stroking my hair and smiling at me. Scorpius’ expression remained stony. I fought the urge to cry - I was adamant that I did not need her help or her advice, but I so badly wanted to sleep, to find some vestige of peacefulness away from Scorpius, and from Victoire’s sad smiles.

“I’ll be in Dad’s old room.”

“I’ll come and get you when...”

I couldn’t look at her. “Fine.”

“Do you want me to come with you? There are blankets and...”

“I’ll find them.”

“Dom, are you sure?”

I let door shut with a slam, and found myself in the cool darkness of the hallway. It was easier then to deal with the complicated situation I found myself in, away from the expectations and scrutinizing stares of my relatives and friends. Climbing the stairs, I revisited the conversation I had with Scorpius - full of sharp glares and angry words - and mouthed quietly to myself, all the words I should have said. I should have turned and re-entered the kitchen, and shouted them at him, awkwardly and out of context, cursing my own wits and my brain for being too slow to think of them sooner.

Dad’s old room was clean and tidy, and a bunch of wildflowers stood on the empty chest of drawers. Photographs from his days at Hogwarts plastered the walls, and posters of his favourite bands and Quidditch stars - he had told me once how he had caught Nana Molly trying to peel them off the walls when he had returned from Hogwarts one summer holiday. I trailed my fingers along the curling, ageing parchment: a picture of himself, his mother and Harry just before he had entered the maze (a shimmer of silver hair showed Maman lurking in the background, eying Bill’s earring); a family portrait with Dad’s face free of scars and achingly young, Ginny just a baby; himself, standing proud in front the Gryffindor fire place, Head Boy badge pinned to his chest.

The bed was stripped, but I didn’t care, instead pulling an old blanket from the top shelf of the wardrobe and laying down on the bare mattress. The pillow was itchy without its case, but it was still comfortable.

Darkness pricked at the edge of my vision, and I revelled in how easily I could fall asleep these days - but before I edged into unconsciousness, I wondered whether, when I woke, I would feel refreshed. I had doubted for a while that this inherent tiredness could be simply cured by sleep. “ _It’s more than that”,_ a voice told me, and I tried to ignore its Irish lilt, “ _you need to recover”._

Lorcan’s face, beautiful and alive - eyes closed, lips barely open. His chest was rising and falling gently as he slept. I pressed close to him and my legs were wrapped tight in the white sheets.

His face, cold and dead - eyes closed, lips barely open. His chest was still. I moved closer to him, my fingers gripping the white shroud. I wrestled feverishly against some strange pull, some force that was pushing me back. There was wind, and salty sea air, and a cliff face. His face.

 

 

"Dom?"

I opened my eyes. It took me a moment to realise that it wasn't him, but his brother. Lysander stared down at me, his features just visible in the early morning light. A candle spluttered on the table next to me - Rose had visited in the night, and brought a glass of water, and draped another blanket over me - and the shadows flickered across his face. It took me another moment to remember why his being here was significant.

“Hello.” He smiled.

My eyelids were still heavy, and my lips were cracked and parched. I tried to sit up, but Lysander’s hand found my shoulder and pressed me gently back into the pillows.

“Don’t get up on my account.”

“What’s going on?” I was sweating, still disorientated, and tried to pull the covers away from me. “Rose said that...”

“Rose is asleep.”

“What time is it?”

I hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains, and dawn had crept through the windows. The surrounding house was silent, but the birds outside were singing, and I could hear Lysander’s hot, rasping breath just inches away from my face. I shuffled away from him, but his grip tightened on my shoulder. 

I had expected that he would have changed, that I would see him in a different light now that I knew he was a murderer. He looked exactly the same.

“Dom, just wait...”

I pulled away from him, limbs flailing. I hit the bedside table as the blanket tangled itself around me. I struggled against Lysander’s touch, the floor rising up to meet me as I fell off the bed. He was laughing at me, but I pulled myself across the floor, my legs weak, backing into the dresser as if for protection.

“What’s wrong with you?” He paused, watching me, smirk plastered across his lips: a moment where he considered what to say next, a brief respite where he contemplated whether to hurt my feelings or not, whether to feel sorry for me. 

“You look like someone just died.”

Lorcan, still and silent, wrapped in a white shroud. Lorcan, clawing his way across the office floor: blood matted his usually neat hair, and his blue eyes were wide and shining. He was calling for me, shouting his brother’s name.

“Someone did.” The words struggled out of my mouth.

“So, you think I’m a murderer.” He smirked again, infuriating but strangely compelling - maybe he resorted to it in times of stress, trying and failing to smile properly, always lacking the sincerity, the genuineness, of his brother. Or, simply, it was another sign that he was only mildly entertained. Lysander stood, and became a silhouette against the orange sky. My back ached against the dresser as I forced myself further away from him.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

“They told me. _You_ told me. “ _I could have killed Lorcan, but obviously someone got there faster than me”.”_

He laughed again, but the sound was desperate. “I was just playing. Exaggerating. You know how I get when we talk about Lorcan.”

“Murderous.”

“You’re witty, Dom - it’s important not to lose your sense of humour at times of stress.”

I scoffed.

“I can promise you I didn’t kill him. I just strongly disliked him, that’s all,” he continued, and the levity in his voice sent my stomach reeling. “There were points when you didn’t like him much either, Dom. I remember. Maybe I should go running to the Aurors about how _you_ bashed his head in.”

I paled. I had forgotten there was a time I would come to him for everything.

“I don’t...”

“You do remember, and that’s what kills you. You’re too busy now focusing on the happier parts of it, the better parts of him, of _you..._ because in truth, Dom, you two were never that perfect. And you’re trying hard now to think that you were, forcing yourself to remember...”

He knelt in front of me. He reached out to touch me. I spat in his face.

His jaw clenched. Where I had spent the past week or so in a strange, distant haze, flitting in and out of consciousness, lost and hollow and _empty_ , I could see him now in glorious colour. My vision was sharp, suddenly. The sound of his breath once again filled my ears. I smell him - oddly fresh and clean, newly disinfected, and I could taste it on the air. I could reach out and touch him. Lysander had been gloriously returned to me in all five senses. I had suffered betrayal in all five senses.

“You manipulated him,” he continued, but he was lying, the words trickling from his lips a horrible tumble of dishonesty and a need for someone else to be on his side, for someone else to see Lorcan as he saw him - but I didn’t. Lysander was talking about things he didn’t understand, things he couldn’t grasp with his fucked up mentality and limited emotional capacity. He was wrong.

“Even _he_ told me about it - back at school, what you used to do to get your way. He used to call it Veela charm but I knew what he was talking about, because you did it to me, too. Teddy as well.”

Lysander was wrong. He was lying. There was nothing - I did not do anything.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dom, I was impressed. I always knew you possessed that darker side of you, the part that preyed on what you wanted - it was what made us friends, that I knew it was there.”

He was dragging me down to his level; only he could play these psychological tricks. I had only tried to replicate them.

I could see every feature of his face, every freckle and blemish. His hair hung into his eyes. I remembered, a long time ago it seemed, imagining sweeping it back from his forehead, to remind myself how it felt. There was a time I had longed for our friendship: that thick, intense friendship we had endured through Hogwarts, cheeks flushing after Quidditch matches, stolen looks in the Forbidden forest. Our friendship had always had a wild, manic quality, something unhinged and hectic and perilous - high energy, although now the current had reversed and instead of joking and laughing with him, I wanted to beat him senseless, dislocate him.

There was a taint that coloured our relationship, a stain that only emerged in a certain light: while looking at someone reflected in a mirror, or when they thought they weren’t being watched. In those moments, in brief glances or hidden in shadow - there was always something. It lurked and it waited, but it was there: never debated, but persistent, a tangled rush of strange emotions. The problem had started long before I really acknowledged it. I just felt disgusted, disgusted that I could have ever thought those things about Lysander. _They looked the same, but they were different._

A long scar trailed down the left side of his face. Perhaps that was the product of the fight he had with Lorcan, before -

He reached out to cup me on the chin. A spasm passed through me, and my breathing quickened. He could easily slip his hands lower, touching my skin, gripping my neck, and _tightening._ He’d done it once before.

Tears pricked at my eyes. His fingers moved to sweep a piece of hair behind my ear.

“I didn’t kill him,” he repeated, his voice close and cloying, intimate. I closed my eyes against his words, as if the thin skin of my eyelids would limit their effect on me, the obvious fact that he was _lying_ to me. I had to sit, feet slipping on the carpeted floor, chest heaving, as his fingers toyed with me, and wait for the lie to happen. I had to prepare myself for it.

It didn’t come again. Perhaps he realised that it wasn’t working.

“I’m going to France, with Molly and Louis. They said they’d look after me.”

I wanted to be sick. I wanted to wash it all from me: every essence of him, every memory and every touch. I never wanted to see him again. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to show him how much he destroyed me, how much he hurt me, how much he changed my life. I needed him to leave, but I also needed him to stay - for him to take his punishment and for him to get what he deserved. I was desperate for him to get his hands off me.

He didn’t. Instead, he pulled me closer to him, his arms snaking around my body and crashed his lips forcefully to mine. My hands scrambled at his chest and at his face, trying to push him away. I needed to get his lips off mine. I moaned into mouth, trying to shout ‘no’ but failing. I hit him repeatedly on the back of the head. He finally relented, but he pressed his forehead to mine, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I could feel it against my skin, hot and foul. My head had bashed against the solid dresser handle in the struggle, and I could feel a warm trickle of blood on my neck.

Bile rose in my throat. I felt dizzy. Lysander had finally moved away from me, back towards the bed, and I stumbled to my feet. I found my wand on top of the dresser, and held it, unpractised, in his vague direction.

“What did you think that would do? What did you think that would achieve, Lysander?” I was screaming at him now, and I could imagine Rose waking from her sleep, still perfectly groomed and neat, and hurrying to my room. Tears were falling thick and fast now, my head aching. “I need you to leave. I want you to _die.”_

He seemed to swarm towards me, his hands at my waist as I fell painfully. My vision blurred. Darkness crept at the edge of my eyes, dawn light swallowed by black. Lysander was leaving, but his grip tightened on my body.

“I thought we were strangers,” he was saying, whispering deep in my ear, my thoughts a painful blaze, “but we know other, don’t we, Dom? It’s romantic, in a way - deep down, in our very bones, we’re the same.”


	7. Shell Cottage

Days merged into one long, winding jumble of time. Those early days since Lorcan’s death had been a blur and, looking back, I struggled to remember moments - times when Rose had said she had been to visit, the birth of a distant relative that Maman had fawned over, my cousins’ finding new jobs - happy times that had been overshadowed by Lorcan’s death and the subsequent battle between sleep and consciousness.

The memories of Lorcan had begun to slip through my fingers, out of my grasp and, horribly, were replaced by visions of Lysander in various states of agony - missing limbs, covered in blood, eyes blank and staring. I had thought of his mind and his brain, all those coils. I pictured opening his skull, unspooling his brain and sifting through it, just trying to catch and pin down his thoughts and see whether we were indeed similar, as he had said. I had chased him through dark woods. I had forced him under cold, dark water, and the bubbles escaped from between his lips. I would wake from these dreams easily, not sweating or shaking, as if they were sweet.

And Rose or Victoire or Maman would be standing over me with a bowl of soup, a cheering story, and a friendly smile. I would nod and grimace, listening patiently to their tales, because it was easier than telling them to leave, to be quiet. They would clean up after me, and would wake to find the flat spotless - neat piles of post and a vase of fresh flowers would greet me.

It was easier with Albus, or Teddy - they wouldn’t try and cheer me up, and instead wait for me to talk, to start the topic of conversation and leap in eagerly whenever I said anything. Dad was the same, but would pitch in with words of wisdom that surprised me - but then he had lost a brother, way back when, and knew how I would be feeling.

He had pulled the old armchair from its corner, and set it by the bed, like I was some sort of patient in hospital. It was one of the rare times that Maman hadn’t accompanied him, laden with dishes of food that would remain uneaten in the pantry, and he had brought a couple of books from Hermione and several newly knitted jumpers from Nana Molly.

_“I know it’s difficult,”_ he had said, hand gripping mine, _“I’ve been there. George wouldn’t leave his - their - flat for days, not even to come to the Burrow, so we could be together.”_

I had sat up at that comment, but he had placed a hand on my shoulder.

_“I didn’t mean that as a criticism... just that... I don’t know. I know people grieve differently, that’s all I’m saying. So, whatever you want, whatever you_ need... _take all the time you want, all right?”_ Dad had stood up and kissed me on the forehead.  _“And if you feel like getting out of bed at some point - just to avoid bed sores, I mean...”_

I had laughed, and the sound resonated oddly in my throat. Dad had smiled, and I had felt better, and a weird compulsion to leap out of bed and tour the countryside or visit the Auror office or some friends from school.

But none of them had mentioned Lysander, and I hadn’t seen Scorpius since the night he left. I had ignored Louis’ letters, and Lucy’s reasoning behind her sister’s decision to help him. I had spoken to Rose briefly since the morning after Lysander had left. She had given me a weary smile and we had talked about work for a few minutes. The conversation was stiff and uncomfortable, the weight of the night’s events still hanging over us, but then Noah had appeared and whisked her away to talk about wedding venues and the like.

They had chosen the welfare of a murderer over my own, and none of them seemed to agree with me - even Harry and Teddy, trained Aurors, looked at me sheepishly whenever they had visited and I asked them questions about what would happen next, what would happen to him.

They hadn’t answered me. So, instead, I dreamt about it.

 

 

 

The door to Shell Cottage was painted the darkest of blues. I remember painting it, all those years ago, with my father. I remember splashing around in the paint while Papa finished the door off with his wand. I had put my paint-covered hands in Victoire’s hair, and she had run to Teddy to complain. He wouldn’t touch her because she was a ‘girl’ and he thought, at the tender age of twelve, that they ‘smelt funny’.

The wind was howling, and I could taste the sea spray on the air as I knocked on the door. The door sprung open almost immediately, and Maman appeared, tall and graceful and elegant, with an apron wrapped around her waist. She looked flustered and confused. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Dominique! What? I wasn’t expecting...” Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “But come in, come in! Dinner is almost ready! I’m so glad to see you!”

She pulled me inside, and into the house I knew so well. As I pulled off my coat and lay my gloves and hat on the side table, Maman bustled away into the kitchen. I glanced at myself in the hallway mirror, and then stared - I was so pale, so ghostly and gaunt, that I was convinced I was turning into vapour before my own eyes, that there was, in fact, no reflection.

“Look who is here!”

Dad and Teddy were sitting at the kitchen table, while Victoire and Maman flitted around the kitchen, skirts swirling and hair flying in some sort of elegant dance, the pinnacle of femininity. Delicious smells wafted from the oven and the bubbling saucepans, and I struggled to remember a time when I had last cooked for myself, or felt this warm.

I waved awkwardly, still perched in the doorway, still feeling like an intruder. Dad was smiling kindly at me, and Teddy had his head buried in the Evening Prophet. Maman beckoned me inside while she tasted the sauce.

“Come, come! I’ve only got enough meat for the four of us, but you can have mine, if you want, Dominique. There’s plenty of vegetables, and gravy, and your father went and bought a new bottle of firewhiskey today, the rascal...”

“Oh, it’s fine, Maman, don’t worry. I won’t have any,” I protested, but she waved my comment aside.

“Nonsense! You must eat! Look at you!”

“I don’t...”

“She’s right, you know,” Victoire interrupted, in that horribly superior voice she adopted whenever she talked down to me, whenever she talked about her wedding or her exam results or her job. 

“Have you been looking after yourself? There’s barely anything left of you, you’re just skin and bone.”

“I think she looks great - much better than I would look, in the circumstances,” Teddy added from behind his newspaper.

Victoire paused at her husband’s comment. “Stop flirting with her, Ted.”

I slumped into the seat opposite him - perhaps this had been a bad idea, what with Victoire’s criticisms veiled as concern, and her jokes about the teenage crush I used to harbour for her husband. Dad placed his hand on top of mine.

“I’m glad you came, anyhow,” he said, and I smiled at him.

Victoire got up to help Maman with the plates, and dinner was served. There was silence as we ate, and my mother had piled the food high on my plate, leaving her with very little. She kept sending me worried looks, and kept checking that I was eating.

“Would you like some more, Dominique? There’s some here...”

“Maman, I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to.”

“I’m worried about you, my darling.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but she continued to look sceptical. I could feel myself getting angry - she should leave me alone, leave me to cope and struggle through this on my own. Rose was the same; the constant concerned looks had gotten boring. My grip tightened around my fork, and Dad’s hand rested over mine again.

“Have Rose and Noah set a date yet?” His question was enough to distract Maman.

“Not yet, no,” Victoire chimed in. “What with everything that’s happened...”

“I’m hoping she’ll just change her mind. Noah’s weird,” Teddy added.

“Oh, Teddy,” Maman said, “I think he’s lovely.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? He’s perfect on paper.”

“A bit of a git in real life,” I added. Teddy snorted. Victoire glanced at me: she always cautious when the three of us were together, always on edge. She had joked about the infatuation I had for Teddy when I was sixteen: all short skirts and red lipstick, flouncing around the house, full of flirtatious smiles and ignoring the boundaries of personal space. I looked at Teddy - happily married and still handsome, when he wasn’t changing his face to resemble ogres - and it was hard to believe that I had harboured such ridiculously intense feelings for him. Victoire had never let it go: she had always joked about it in the same tight-lipped manner, always her hand on his shoulder, standing in between us like some barrier.

_“Even Lorcan told me about it - back at school, what you used to do to get your way. He used to call it Veela charm but I knew what he was talking about, because you did it to me, too. Teddy as well.”_ I shook Lysander’s words from head, because they were lies, born out of bitterness. I supposed Victoire thought now, with Lorcan dead and buried and me all alone, that I would resume my efforts to steal him from her.

“Just think about it in this sense - Noah, or Scorpius?”

“Scorpius, obviously. I’m not blind,” Dad answered.

“He’d do anything for her, I know that,” Maman said. “But Noah and Rose have been together for so long that nothing seems to break them, not even Scorpius.”

Victoire raised her eyes to mine. I could see her hand move to her husband’s knee under the table. Did she really think I would do it? To her? To Teddy? My boyfriend had just been murdered. I was a wreck, a pale ghost, nothing in comparison to her dazzling ethereal beauty.

“I think he should tell her,” Teddy added, chewing. “Give her all the information so she can make an informed choice. Pick the right one.”

“You’re making it sound like some sort of Auror matter,” Dad said.

“Never underestimate the things people would do for love. The number of murders I’ve seen where...”

“Not at the dinner table, thank you.”

“Plus the standard of Auror work is going downhill.” Teddy picked up the paper, and gestured to an article. “This, for example.” 

The headline read ‘ _BREAK IN AT AUROR OFFICE: ONE SUSPECTED’_

“Mitchell was on duty that day, covering for me because it was the day of the funeral, and he _swore_ he hadn’t seen anything. According to this, they’re testing him for the Imperius trace.”

“You don’t need to talk about work now, surely.”

“But they think it’s Lysander, they think that he’s the one who broke in and...”

My mind was filled with static as they all looked at me, trying to judge my reaction. I made some sort of noncommittal gesture and cleared my throat.

“You can carry on, it doesn’t matter-”

“So it was the same day of the funeral, and according to some ‘anonymous source’, some bastard, he left the wake early and wasn’t seen until later that evening. They think he did it to tamper with the evidence, steal it back, whatever.”

“But that can’t be...”

“His brother’s funeral, and - ”

“They’re right,” I said, fingers tracing patterns in the tablecloth, eyes downcast. “He only came back just before I left.”

“You don’t know where he went, though.”

“Yes, I mean, he could have easily...”

They continued talking and I pulled the newspaper towards me. There was a picture of Higgins, tall and impressive in front of the Auror office, and a smaller photo of Lysander, fresh from his days at Hogwarts. 

_Lysander Scamander (pictured) was accused of the brutal murder of his brother, Hlr. Lorcan Scamander, after evidence proved that the twin brothers shared a heated argument just before the healer’s demise. Other evidence - a family photo belonging to Lysander Scamander, who was apparently travelling at the time - was found at the scene. On the same day as Lorcan Scamander’s funeral, the Auror office reported a break-in in their top security evidence room, and found the photo evidence tampered with, but not missing (our source suggests that Scamander was interrupted before he could destroy it). Scamander was reported missing from the wake, which was held in the Scamanders’ hometown of Galleacht in Northern Ireland, and did not return until the late evening. Head of the Auror Office, Jasper Higgins suggests... (Continued on page 9)._

I felt a creeping sense of alienation, of estrangement from the family who couldn’t clearly see what was happening. Lysander was a _murderer -_ the photo, now the break-in - it was all there, laid out in front of them, like some gruesome puzzle, but they could not see how the pieces fit as plainly as I could, blinded by affection and loyalty for a man who had abandoned me for two years and who was no longer my friend.

“Dom, he could go to Azkaban.”

It had been a mistake to come here.

“Maybe he deserves to.”

I stood up then, and Maman protested. Teddy apologised profusely, and Victoire simply stared at me with a strangely disappointed look that infuriated me. Dad sat quietly in his chair.

“I’m going home, I don’t feel well,” I said. Dad muttered something, and I realised, much later, in the dark of my bedroom, that it was ‘I’m sorry’. “I’ll see you all soon though.”

“Dom, please, you don’t need…” Victoire’s fingers tightened around Teddy’s upper arm, and he fell silent.

“You can stay the night.” Maman stood. “I’ll make up the bed.”

“I’ll just go.”

And only hours since I had left it, I was back in my flat, back in bed. The crisp white sheets were cooling and comforting, and grey mist pressed against the windows as I drifted into sleep.

 

 

 

I dozed, my mind a controlled clutter of doubts, suspicions and certainties.

I was chasing Lysander through grey, cloying mist. I gripped my wand in my hand as my feet moved with startling speed across the hill or meadow or field, I couldn’t quite determine. His breathing was coming with difficulty, and he kept looking back at me, with circles of sweat at his armpits and his collar, his tired legs tripping over themselves.

I smashed into him, and Lysander fell. I was grappling at his arms, gouging at his eyes, his heartbeat beating a dull tattoo underneath me and rattling in my ears. He was staring at me, lost and confused and angry all at once. He was calling my name, crawling across the grass, and bleeding from a deep cut on the back of his head. I was wiping my hands of the blood, tracing patterns with it on his pale skin.

My mind was assailed by a most extraneous vision. Lorcan was sitting in front the fire, staring into it, as if waiting for someone to give him the answer. Suddenly, he turned to me and kissed me, and the image flickered between him - light from the fire and soft touches - to Lysander - early dawn and bruised lips. But when he drew away he was scar-free and neat and tidy, and Lorcan talked to me...

_“I’ve been summoned for a hearing. They want to talk about the child that I lost. I couldn’t save her, Dom. You know that. I tried, and I did all I could - but they think I didn’t try hard enough.”_

I cradled him in my arms and he shook so violently I felt like I was shattering.

I sat up in bed, still disturbed by this intrusion on my memory. I tried not to remember what followed - his sadness had morphed into something darker, a vicious argument filled with veiled threats and comments I would later regret. I wondered whether I had succumbed to Lysander’s words, wondered whether I had suppressed these memories in an attempt to immortalize our relationship in a glorious, golden light. 

Despite my still body, my mind raced backwards in time. I revisited all of them - a reel of awkward, embarrassing times coupled with some of the most terrifying, distressing moments of my life. I watched a parade of my life’s failures, but finally, inevitably, my mind returned to that final, deepest pain: Lorcan’s death.

I woke the next morning with eyes red and raw from crying.


	8. An Offer of Employment

“Dominique Weasley?”

There was a smartly dressed man standing in my doorway. I had crawled out of bed to answer his knocking, and I had stared, bleary-eyed, up at him. He was classically handsome, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw and dark, wavy hair. He had a lean, muscular build and wore smart black robes that were obviously expensive.

He would have been every woman’s fantasy.

The only thing that changed him - disfigured him - was the long, thin scar running down his face. It started at his forehead - the beginning even disappeared into his hair - and it sliced his eye in half before continuing past his nose and onto his chin and neck, and faded under his shirt collar. His eyes were the coldest of greys, and even in the eye the scar carved through, the colour still shone coolly in the weak autumn sunlight.

“Yes,” I croaked. I pulled on Lorcan’s jumper, embarrassed by the state of my clothes. The man smiled - and it was surprisingly warm.

“My name is Atticus Debole. I’m here to talk to you about the letter my father sent to you a couple of weeks ago. I know, obviously, that it’s been a very difficult time for you, but we wanted to check up on you, and see how you were doing.” His voice was soft and polite.

“Oh, right.” I struggled to remember what he was talking about - the letter had arrived weeks ago, just after Lorcan’s funeral. I had completely forgotten about it, and I didn’t feel like talking to this man, handsome as he was.

“I don’t know, Mr Deb- Debole? I’ve got to be somewhere.”

He stared down at my pyjamas and raised an eyebrow.

“So... goodbye.” I pushed the door closed, but Debole had raised his arm to stop it.

“I could talk you through it. I’m sure the work would do you good, get out of the house.”

The thought of leaving the flat made my throat close, but he was already stepping through the open door, moving around me and taking a seat at my kitchen table. I moved slowly, my reactions dull from sleep. He looked so confident - there was no sign that he was ashamed of the scar on his face, and he carried no briefcase or papers.

His spread his hands across the wood as I sat opposite him. They were scared too: tiny white lines criss-crossing across his akin, mingling with the blue of his veins and the soft pink of his perfectly shaped nails. Debole smiled at me, and I again marvelled at how much it softened his features.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember what...”

He waved his wand, and the letter zoomed from across the pile of post that had littered my kitchen worktop. The seal was still broken and the parchment covered in dust, but Debole slid it across to me.

“My father sends his condolences regarding Lorcan’s death and you losing your job at the Auror office. He then gives some limited information about the work you’ll be doing...”

“Mr Debole, I don’t know whether...”

“Please, call me Atticus.”

Atticus took another envelope from his cloak pocket and placed it in front of me. He was offering me a job, and I shied away from it. I’m not someone who could be depended on five days a week; I barely get out of bed five days in a row, and remember to eat even more rarely. Reporting to a workplace - leaving my bed, showering, apparating, _functioning normally -_ was unfeasible.

“Here is your application form if you do go on to the next stage of the application process, however I have been told to warn you against the nature of the work.”

He said it would do me good. He said it would get me out of the house.

“As an Auror,” Atticus began, “you must have been trained to a high standard. You must have faced dark wizards on a daily basis. Being an Auror is a dangerous job.”

I felt the urge to laugh. I would hardly call sitting at a desk sorting through thousands ands thousands of case files dangerous. Atticus noticed the smile that had sneaked onto my face, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I wouldn’t have said my job was dangerous.”

He paused, and he tilted his head as he considered me again. His movements were almost robotic.

“I’m sure my father wouldn’t have suggested you if he didn’t think you were capable.”

“Capable of what?” His words had piqued my interest, and he pulled a third piece of parchment from his pocket. It was a newspaper cutting - a picture of a young man and women, both with sandy blonde hair and dark brown eyes. The girl was relatively pretty, but the man was podgy and sweaty, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Who is this?”

“The man on the left is Henry Copperfield. The woman is his sister. The organisation I represent has reason to believe that he is a dark wizard, currently operating in mainland Europe.”

I stared at the picture again, trying and searching to find some sign of darkness in the man’s face. I found it easily with Lysander - the scars, the constant infuriating smirk - and even with Atticus, sitting across the table from me. His sister was smiling, bright and cheerful, but the man seemed shy.

“He has killed thirteen Muggles to date,” Atticus continued, and his voice was colder, and more cutting.

“I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“Miss Weasley...”

I pushed the photo away from me. He looked innocent, like a small child, still with chubby cheeks and piggy eyes. Even in the picture, I didn’t dare underestimate him. I had underestimated Lysander.

“You trained to fight dark wizards. You trained for three years.”

“But it’s different now... Lorcan...”

“Would he try and stop you doing your job? Try and stop you from helping us prevent more murders?”

I leant back in my chair, while Atticus continued.

“My organisation has been given the task of hunting down this man. We have evidence against him, proof that he committed these crimes. He won’t be given a trial. All we are waiting for now is an opportunity to strike.”

“He’s going to be thrown into Azkaban unfairly?” I asked.

Atticus shifted in his chair. His eyes didn’t quite reach mine.

“He’s going to be given a Dementor’s kiss?”

“Not quite,” Atticus said. The two words hung heavy in the air.

“You’re going to kill him.”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Weasley.”

“That’s absurd. What if you’re wrong?”

“There is no possibility of that.” Of course, the Aurors were always right. They had been right about Lysander. I looked at Atticus again, and I was on the verge of asking him where he got his scars, whether he had encountered Copperfield at some point or other. “He will be found and he will be killed.”

I expected a professional killer to be more detached, more unemotional. I expected Atticus to sit there with a sense of authority, but still slightly unhinged. I expected him to act as Lysander had done, but with an air of someone more practiced. Instead, he looked guilty. I saw his jaw clench and his knuckles turn white as he gripped the table. I was fascinated for the shortest of seconds - he was finally showing some sort of emotion.

“And my job would be?”

“You’d be his killer.” A moment’s silence followed this statement, and Atticus watched and waited for my response. He had said the work would _do me good._

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I don’t think I can be involved in this.”

“We can offer you other things,” Atticus said. “We know about France, Miss Weasley. We know who is hiding there.”

I paled. “Do the Aurors...”

“No, not yet - but we will tell them, and soon.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I lost my wife a few months ago, and if somebody offered... if somebody offered me a chance for revenge, I would take it.”

I felt cold. I thought that I would stand up and order him to leave. Killing someone, no matter what they had done, was disgusting - the worst thing someone could do, but I did not. I sat there and let him continue to talk to me, outlining the details of the mission, and Copperfield’s mind-set and previous convictions. I watched his lips move but I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. I kept imaging his face as Lysander’s - that his voice had a slight tinge of an Irish accent. I imagined his face was clear of the horrific scar.

Both of them were killers. Both of them I had allowed into my house without any opposition. Strangely, I felt more attached to the man sitting across from me than Lysander, my supposed friend for over a decade.

“You’ll be able to leave at any point during the training, at any point you feel uncomfortable...”

Lysander’s face, his breath hot and heavy on my skin, and his lips bearing down on mine. I felt bile rise in my throat at the thought of him, at the thought of him murdering his brother. I had stared at him, up close: he was grinning with the savagery of a maniac, bloodlust concealed with levity.

Atticus was different - he possessed the look of complete negation that reposes in the eyes of a young killer, the look born of supreme efficiency tried and proven. It differed to my parents, to my uncles and aunts - a stage beyond the experience of war. The witnessing of death in war brings a sophistication of its own, but more than that, it is the conviction of supremacy in the heart of the professional killer, a cold decisiveness, a certain power.

I supposed I would one day look like that: pale eyed, expressionless. “ _That darker side of you”_ , Lorcan had said and here I was, embracing it.

I felt a distinct change when I looked at Atticus, as I agreed to his terms and conditions, as I signed a piece of official looking parchment. My body was being torn away from me, and I was placed in a new, shining one, replete with armour, with no need for mercy.

 

 

Someone was knocking on the door. The sound came from far away, pummelling at the edges of my mind, daring to interrupt the images and visions that had settled there. My arms had slipped through the bars of his cage, and my white hands were around his throat.

“Dom? Are you in?”

He was struggling and flailing against my tightening grasp, clawing desperately along my pale arms, nails leaving deep, bloody scratches and his own grip leaving bruising welts.

“Dom, come on! I want to talk to you!”

“One second!” I rose from the bed.

Lysander crumpled.

I opened the door, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The dream had been the last in a series of disturbing images, sharp and focused and in vibrant colour. They should have shaken me - waking up in a sweat, cheeks flushed against pale skin - but instead I revelled in them.

“Dom, finally...”

“Scorpius?”

I hadn’t even thought about what I was wearing, about what I looked like. I hadn’t showered in days, and the clothes I was wearing were stained with food and yellow with sweat. I pushed my greasy hair out of my eyes, and stared up at the man at my door.

“Merlin, you look terrible.”

“I’m not feeling very well, Scorpius - I’ve got these headaches.”

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Really, Scorpius, I’m on these pills...”

“It’ll only take a moment, please.”

I imagined shutting the door in his face, then listening to his footsteps as they made his way down the stairs, onto the street. I would hurry to the window and wait for the crack that signalled his apparition. I would breathe a sigh of relief that I had put off seeing people, _talking to people,_ for another day. I felt too irritable to talk to anyone. 

I knew if I told him no, outright, he would leave. Scorpius had always possessed a certain talent: he had always been respectful, and he had always known when to leave something be, when to shut up, when to fuck off. He would leave, shouting and swearing at him, knowing that his presence would only infuriate me further, that his sad smiles and reassuring words would do nothing for me at that moment. Lysander had always lurked, with baited breath and a knowing grin, because he relished in it - watching me lose control. He used to bait the monster out of me. He would sit and wait to see whether I rose to the challenge.

And I had - I had accepted Debole’s proposal without a word of opposition, thinking that it would do me _good._ I felt nauseous now, at how I had acted: embarrassed at my irrational behaviour, disgusted with myself at the apparent justification. I would write to Atticus today, as he said I could do, and say no. 

To spend my life in dreams, that would be lovely - I could kill and harm and maim Lysander over and over and over again, in many different ways. I did not need to be conscious. Because nothing is as good as you can imagine it. No one is as beautiful as they are in your head. Nothing is as exciting as your fantasy.

“I’m really sorry about... about that night. I know you’re angry with me,” Scorpius continued, “but I really need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

“Atticus Debole.”

I opened the door wider, and I saw relief break over Scorpius’ face, knowing that I wouldn’t shut him out. He stepped into my living room, tall and gangling and awkward. There was no possible way Scorpius could have known about my meeting with Atticus, unless the Auror office was somehow involved with the mission. I rolled out my best blank face, slumping onto the sofa. I wanted nothing more than to be unconscious again, wrapped in black.

“What about him? Who is that?”

“You know, Dom. You met him. A couple of days ago - he came here, to your flat. Stayed for about an hour?”

“I haven’t seen anyone since I went to Shell Cottage.” I felt a familiar surge of warmth, a red blush creeping over my features. I was speaking too quickly, I could tell, and Scorpius would be able to tell whether I was lying. My face had formed an expression of confusion that was overdone and overplayed. “Scorpius, I don’t know...”

“He’s not good news, Dom,” Scorpius continued, not looking at me, “he’s got a bad reputation. Stuff he did at Hogwarts, his work at the Ministry - some of it is pretty dark.”

“Honestly, I really don’t know who you are talking about.”

Scorpius smiled at me. “Just... just don’t see him again, all right?”

“Well, I’ll actively avoid him if you just tell me who he is, what he looks like...”

He went to the closet and pulled out a coat and a scarf, and kicked a pair of boots towards me, before gesturing to put them on.

“We’ve had tails on you since Lorcan died, for your own protection,” he said, and I opened my mouth to protest. “I know you wouldn’t like it, so we didn’t tell you. I want you to promise me that you won’t see this man again, for whatever reason...”

“I can’t believe this... you had me followed?”

“It wasn’t my call, Dom, but I did support the idea, yeah.”

“What did you think I was going to do? Did you think I was going to...” I stopped suddenly, thinking of all the times Lysander had stayed and visited and left and come back. They must have seen him break into my house, our awkward encounter at the front gate, everything.

“You can call them off,” I said, “and I’ll promise never to speak to Atticus again.”

“Dom, I don’t think that...”

“He’s the most obvious threat to my life, isn’t he? If Lysander is innocent.”

A harsh, cold grimace replaced Scorpius’ pleading expression; it seemed that he, along with the rest of my family and friends, still thought that Lysander was an innocent man, that he hadn’t killed his brother. A look of disappointment still etched over his face, he gestured again at my shoes, lying on the floor, and handed me my coat. Scorpius then turned and stood with the door open onto the corridor outside, and a cold breeze swirled around my apartment. I thought, for one wild moment, that the Aurors they had stationed to protect might be right there, their ears pressed up against the door, with their wands out in case of danger.

“I’ll call the Aurors off. Thought we could go for a walk... talk about stuff.”

 

 

I hadn’t realised how early it was. The air was sharp and piercing, the lingering hues of night glimmered faintly in the sky. The buildings and crowds, which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more defined and more familiar. I pulled my coat more closely around me, feeling some lingering aches and pains dissipate with the fresh air.

“You are listening to me, aren’t you?”

The early morning noise rushed in: the sound on our footsteps on the cobbled street, the clamour of Muggle London, singing birds. I had been preoccupied - the street noise blocked out as I examined Scorpius’ face, at the scar protruding from his hairline and slicing his eye in half.

I blinked quickly. The scar had gone.

“Sorry,” I said quietly.

“Are you all right? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“It’s just a headache, nothing really.”

We had walked in silence for a long time, with Scorpius muttering the occasional comment or observation. I had seen him wave a hand at two nondescript people, seated on a bench just across from my flat. My mouth felt dry, my tongue stuck, and my teeth clamped - I was finding it difficult to function in the outside world, and Scorpius somehow expected me to make conversation.

I didn’t know what to say to him. My mind was a mess of confused thought: either whirring at a hundred miles per hour or slogging slowly through quicksand. My heartbeat felt as though it rivalled a rabbit’s. I saw Aurors and other, dark-suited men around each and every corner, tracking my movements, making notes. Scorpius turned to me, waiting to hear what I had to say, and I stared at his features in the early morning gloom. What could I say? _I’m sorry, Scorpius, but I’ve accepted a post at a top-secret Ministry-led organisation where I might have to kill people for a living? They’ve given me the opportunity to murder your best friend in order to get revenge and to make me feel better about being so desperately lonely - and I would do anything to repel this state of melancholia?_

Scorpius looked expectant, but I said nothing. The cracks and lines of the paved street suddenly seemed very interesting, and I kept my face hidden in my scarf. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to dispel the image of white lines tracing themselves over his hands. I felt sick.

He steered me gently into a random café, all brightly coloured plastic and glaring lights. He ordered two cups of tea at the till and came to sit with me.

I wanted to shout at him. He was waiting for me to say something, even though he had initiated this - he wanted me to land the first punch, to make the first move. It was always this way. I had always practiced a certain amount of restraint when it came to Scorpius. I was always less aggressive and less scathing towards him. It wasn’t that he couldn’t take it, more that I wanted to uphold the only true friendship I had with someone who wasn’t in my family.

“So, what do you want to talk about?”

“Whatever you would like to talk about.”

“You brought me here, Scorpius. You got me out of bed for this.”

He set his mug down.

“What were you doing with Atticus Debole? Why did he come to your house?”

I almost choked, putting a hand to my mouth as the hot tea burnt my throat. I panicked, and dropped the mug to the table with a loud smash. The table moved slightly as Scorpius leaned forward, a concerned look on his face. His hand grabbed mine.

”Did something happen? Did he do something to you?”

I shook my head and my eyes searched for something to distract Scorpius from this conversation.

“Nothing happened.”

“It looks bad, Dom, you’ve got to know that. He’s a dark wizard. We’ve got files on him, reports and motives...”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Dark wizard, recently murdered boyfriend? Some people - not me, Dom, I’m just warning you - some people are looking into it.”

“I thought they got their man.”

Another disappointed look, and his grip on my hand tightened. My body was heading into a flare. I tried to remember how to breathe right, how to calm my skin, but it continued to burn and shake and sweat.

“I need you to know that Lysander didn’t do it. He’s just wanted for questioning. He’s a suspect, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything. The investigations have only just started.”

The bell above the café door kept ringing, and cold air was sweeping through the room with every entrance. There was no one else in the café aside from a couple of Muggle builders in high-visibility jackets, but now we were joined my a man and women in Muggle suits, smart briefcases and mobile phones in hand.

“There’s people in the office investigating _you,_ now. Those Aurors following you aren’t necessarily there just for protection. You need to tell me what’s going on, why he came to see you. They need to know.”

I stared at the ceiling, tears welling.

“I miss Lorcan,” I said quietly. It felt like an easy way out; being conflicted means you can live a shallow life without being thought of as a shallow person.

“I miss him too.”

“You don’t seem too. He’s dead. Lysander killed him.”

“He didn’t, Dom. I promise you. Please, I need you to answer my questions...”

“Nothing,” I said. “He offered me his condolences. Said that Lorcan had treated his wife when she was sick. It was nothing. He had a cup of tea and then he left.”

“Lysander doesn’t want you talking to him - he said that...”

There was a clatter, and I saw a thin stick of wood dancing on the linoleum. I could see it just out of the corner of my eye: a wand rolling across the floor and passed a shining briefcase and a polished shoe. My hand automatically dived into my coat, grasping my own wand tightly. Scorpius’ grip tightened on my other hand. There was clapping and laughter from the television in the corner. Someone ordered an English breakfast.

”You said that you had called them off,” I murmured. The two people - one with dull, grey hair, the other a woman with dark, handsome features - continued to drink their coffee, passing sheets of paper between them. After a moment, the woman stooped under the table to retrieve her fallen wand.

“I had... these are different people. Dom, I need you to tell me what you have done...”

“I haven’t done anything,” I replied.

“What did you talk about with Atticus?”

“Nothing,” I said, but my words were weak.

“Dom...”

“Not here.” My muscles tensed. Scorpius drained the last of his tea in an attempt to prove that nothing was wrong. I could see his eyes flicker towards the couple in suits.

“Let’s leave.” We both stood up, and Scorpius left a handle of Muggle coins on the table. My hand still grasped around my wand, I stole a glance at the woman - she was pressing at the buttons of her upside-down mobile phone with thick, clumsy fingers. Scorpius linked my arm with his, and we walked quickly out of the café.

Instinctively, I broke into a run. Scorpius called for me to stop, but I kept going and barged through the commuters and the hordes of Muggles. To the left and right, I thought I saw them again - people waiting in the shadows, their hands littered with scars.

There was a flash of a camera. I wheeled around, bewildered, with Scorpius still calling my name. Another flash. I slowed slightly - it was just a man taking a photo of his friend or girlfriend or whoever, all smiles and skirts. I kept running. It was difficult to determine who was following me, and who was not. Scorpius kept shouting my name, which would surely alert someone to my presence. I darted across the road, and joined the crowd heading the other way.

I didn’t know what exactly I was trying to achieve; whether it was best simply to run, to lose them, or to confront them. My mind whirred, gears grinding - who _were_ these people? What were they doing? Scorpius had said that the Aurors had been assigned to me for my own protection, and he had called them off. I couldn’t imagine Atticus would have me trailed like this, as some sort of test. The only other option was...

I searched the crowd, anxious - the mass of people were blending into some drab, grey blur, and pushed against me, briefcases banging into my shins. Nowhere was there a scarred face, no one talking with an Irish lilt, no one smirking infuriatingly.

I turned left, down a smaller, quieter street. I checked in the  reflections of shop windows to see if anyone had followed, but there was enough people still moving and milling around that I could not determine who was trailing me. Scorpius’ blond head bobbed through the crowd. I took another left, and another right, and ended up in an even busier street. I entered various shops, even sat for a minute or two in another café, but nothing.

Scorpius finally caught up with me in a dark, deserted alley.

“Bloody hell, Dom - where did you learn that sort of technique? You must have done shit in Stealth and Concealment.”

I was out of breath. My heart rate was just starting to return to normal, when a white flash illuminated the entire alleyway. I was sent reeling, my eyes unaccustomed to the bright light. I heard voices - a girl, and an older man. Scorpius was wrestling with him, and, still blind, I reached around in the darkness for the other stranger, and caught her jacket. 

I grabbed her by the arm, and twisted it back. She screamed out in pain, and fell further to the floor.

“Who are you?” I yelled. The man wrestled against Scorpius’ grip, pinned against the wall. Vision was coming back to me in great shiny, colourful blotches. The woman continued to struggle, tears already on her cheeks.

“Who sent you?”

“Dom, come on...” Scorpius pleaded. “These aren’t them! They weren’t in the café!”

“People are after you,” the man said, his voice steady, and spat blood onto the alley floor. “We’re not the only ones. There are others, and they mean...”

“Tell me!” I pulled her arm tighter.

“We’re the press! From a magazine!” She cried. “Please, please, don’t...”

My grip weakened momentarily, and I heard Scorpius swear under his breath. The man who had followed us stood breathing heavily against the brick wall, and I looked at him properly - he looked weak and feeble, and a camera had smashed to the floor. I had seen them before, just after I had left the café. I pulled the girl around, and searched her pockets. I found a notebook filled with various times and dates, and I saw she had been writing down my comings and goings. Scorpius’ name was there, alongside Teddy and Victoire’s. Atticus’ name was written in block capitals, underlined twice, and followed by three question marks. Rose’s name - she had visited me most often - was strangely absent. Something loosened within me, a string snapping.

“What do you want with her?” Scorpius interjected, and the little man laughed.

“Her? Everyone wants a piece of her,” he said, a leer across his face. Scorpius pushed him to the floor, and I pulled my wand to his throat. The girl shuffled backwards, and wrapped her arms around her knees, sobbing.

“Which magazine?”

“Dom, come on... let’s just go!”

“You should listen to him, Dominique,” the man sneered, and I smashed my fist into his face. A shot of red sparks issued from my wand, and the man screeched against the scorching heat.

“Stop it!” The girl screamed.

“Who? Which magazine sent you?”

I dropped my wand and picked the man up by the collar, and slammed him back onto the floor. Scorpius was yelling at me, and the girl was still screaming, but I continued. The man’s gaze became increasingly unfocused, a bruise was forming around his eye, and blood trickled from a wound at his hairline. I kept going, slamming him into the ground again and again, pulling against Scorpius’ attempts to stop me.

“Please, stop! Please!” The girl was wailing, wrapping her jacket around her. “I’ll tell you!”

I sent the man flopping to the floor, and stood. Scorpius was staring at me, seemingly confused. My breath was coming in great, heavy gasps. The adrenaline was wearing off now, and looking around me, at the crying girl and the pool of blood around the man’s head, my hands started shaking. I gripped my wand to steady myself, but deep down, I felt I knew what was coming.

“Bryant. Noah Bryant.”

I stamped the heel of my boot into his nose, and Scorpius followed my bloody footprints out of the alley.


	9. Measures and Meetings

There is an inherent meanness about me, within me, apparently - soft and sickly and dripping like dark oil, congealed poison. I had been thinking about it more and more since Lysander left. Previously, I had successfully ignored this particular part of my personality. I had attempted to grow out of it, if that were possible. I had swaddled and choked it with a cool aloofness, letting it escape occasionally through a bitter comment or a stinging remark. As hard as I had tried to conceal it, Atticus, or his father, had noticed. I possessed a certain capacity for cruelty - that was what Lysander had said, that we were _the same._

Rose would say something boring in front of her friends, friends I wasn’t necessarily close to, and I would snap, followed by a titter of laughter. Her face would fall, and I would revel in her sunken features for one moment, before a wave of angry affection made me apologise (later, in a dark corner of the library, in her dorm before her roommate returned). Scorpius, as well - making a mess and a mumble of words, being over enthusiastic about topics I would not care about. Lysander would be my solace, but as I struggled to quash this sinister side, he would not try. Where I had once found his cruelty amusing, it became darker - arguments with Scorpius would end with unsubtle comments about his family’s history, and he would make veiled, disgusting remarks about the closeness of our cousins.

Lorcan would approach me at night - crushed and defeated, shoulders heavy from a long shift. He would crawl into bed and whisper things: people had he lost, horrific injuries, how he _felt._ I would try and feign sleepy interest, comfort him by simply rolling over and letting him encircle me. Sometimes I felt a gross fascination that thrilled me; other times I was shocked by my own apparent lack of empathy, used to the situation after the many times it seemed to happen.

_“Deep_ _down, in our very bones, we’re the same.”_

I shot up, rod straight in my bed, sweating and panting and heaving. His voice had seemed too close - another one of those impossibly realistic dreams that had me reeling. He was wrong about me, had to be, or else...

Darkness played at the corner of my eyes - something I thought was tiredness, but felt more like frustration - and I blinked it back. It was relative. I had surrounded myself with people that, comparatively, were some sort of deities. Lorcan was a Healer, Rose was daughter to two war heroes, and Scorpius was a prefect and top of his class. I was always _adequate,_ cowering in the wake of Victoire’s glow, or Louis’ brains, or the thousands of thousands of other, apparently other-worldly cousins that seemed to constantly succeed and triumph. The Sorting Hat had put me in Gryffindor, home of the brave and the good - but it was one of the hat’s last senile decisions before it was burnt, grunting and yelling obscenities.

I had always been overly defensive - uptight and aggressive from the off, to counter for the inevitable fact that people would grow to dislike me. I compelled people to engage with me through argument. A lack of personality can be attributed to pretty people, apparently, and they can wade through life without having to say a nice word, finding people listening to your inane opinions with the hope of going to bed with you. I should have wafted through life with the special dispensation that beauty bestows, discarding men at every turn - but instead they abandoned me, or died.

Every time people said I was pretty, I thought of everything ugly that was swarming beneath my skin: Veela blood, great leathery wings and claws and sharp beaks, plucking and gouging, and a trace of werewolf.

 

 

“You’re gorgeous! This hair, absolutely divine!”

It had been excruciating to emerge from my eerie submarine existence into this harsh stampede of noise and light. The world jangled with sharp, discordant clarity. My eyes stung at the vast swathes of ivory silk, velvet and lace; my throat burnt from the champagne that was forced into my hand. I was barely breathing. Leaving the flat, leaving my bed, would cause me to break into a cold sweat. I gasped.

“A little too tight? Sorry, my dear.”

The seamstress unpinned several inches of the satin, but the sudden intake of breath did nothing to improve the uneasy tightness in my chest. I stared at my own reflection, almost impossible to distinguish my pale, ghostly pallor from the dresses around me. I stared at it for a long time, as if certain that I simply drift into mist, and disappear before my very eyes.

Rose had barrelled down my door, and all but threw me into the shower. She didn’t have time, apparently, to see the reddened and rough skin of my knuckles, the brown scratches of dried blood on my kitchen tiles. My hands still hurt. I had spent an awkward quarter of an hour trying to eat dry, cold toast, as well as attempting to decipher whether Rose knew anything about what had happened the day before, whether she knew that Noah had these ulterior motives. I had been about to blurt it out, accuse her of knowing, and accuse her of playing some part, just to gauge some sort of reaction. She had been flicking through various official documents and, up close and personal at the kitchen table, I could see the slight irregularities that illustrated her distress.

Looking at her now, glowing in the delicate, glittering light of the shop and surrounded by a flock of gushing seamstresses, it was impossible to notice the red-ringed eyes, the bitten fingernails. There had always been a certain harried quality about Rose - bereaved or not. She worked tirelessly in the Department for Magical Cooperation, simultaneously writing her thesis and looking after swarms of younger cousins who wanted tutoring, or going with Scorpius to care for his father.

Perhaps that was why she had enlisted Noah to have me followed - it was just another bizarre way of hers to make sure that I was all right, that I was alive and sane. Maybe she felt that I was somehow her responsibility. 

Rose was in a state of permanent rush - uncomfortable with sitting still, brain whirring at a hundred miles per hour. Her grubby nails beat anxiously on the back of some heavy tome she was carrying.

“I’m not sure about the veil, about these flowers,” she was saying. “I think that they seem a bit excessive.” A seamstress nodded and waved them away with a sweep of her wand. There was a sharp jab at my right hip.

“Oh, sorry dear.”

“She looks a little run-down, don’t you think?”

Roxanne had travelled from exotic climes to be here, apparently. Her fingers were adorned with rings with shining stones, and there were a variety of brightly coloured bracelets around her wrists. Several new piercings glittered from her ears and her nose. I could see her tan lines easily in the strapless bridesmaid’s dress. She swept her braids around to the front as the seamstress altered the back.

“I mean, to an extent, she’s always looked like that. I think she needs to take some time off,” she continued.

“And travel the world, you mean?”

“Sure, yeah, why not? It worked for me.”

I snorted. I could see her reflection staring at me as I fiddled with the skirt of my dress, but Roxanne was distracted as her seamstress jabbed her sharply with a pin.

“I think it would probably do you some good too.”

I had lain in bed this morning with the window open, the cold air sweeping the room. I had hoped and hoped that an owl would arrive with a note from Rose that today’s exploits had been cancelled, that I was free to spend the rest of the day wrapped up in greying sheets, starting books and letters but never finishing them, running baths and lying in them until the water turned cold.

I wanted to imagine myself on the beach, on a mountainside, in a busy city crawling with new cultures and new life, but I couldn’t. I had always toyed with the idea - the amount of times that I had drifted away from Lorcan’s speeches or from a meeting at work to imagine myself somewhere else, all because Lysander had dared to ask me to accompany him.

I felt a cold, creeping chill, and Roxanne’s hand on my arm. A shadow flittered passed the window, and I looked out onto the busy street. There was no one following me. There was no one there. I started repeating this mantra to myself.

“Dom? Are you ok?”

She was looking at me cautiously, and the seamstress had run off to get some water.

“Yeah, sorry.”

She shot me another simpering smile, then returned to her reflection. The seamstress returned with a pitcher of water and a plate of biscuits, and even she looked at me cautiously. I felt swollen with tears, with anger and frustration, as if one sharp stab of her needle could finish me.

Rose appeared suddenly at my side, with the owner of the dressmakers, and they asked us to twirl and spin on the spot, while they nodded appreciatively and ran the material through their fingers. Roxanne continued to talk, but I wasn’t listening to her. At one point, they all laughed and I failed to join in, leading to another round of sympathetic smiles.

“Poor dear, you’re just tired.”

It seemed to go on for hours. My seamstress had apparently become more competent with her needle, and the stabbing pains as she hit my skin became more intermittent.

“And it was awkward, right, because I saw him in Cambodia. He’s got this huge scar now, all the way around his upper arm. Like something had been wrapped around him and squeezed... Sort of like Uncle Ron’s brain scars."

Her voice buried itself in my consciousness.

“What?”

“I know right! He told me that he was working with dangerous plants and their conservation, something Neville put him onto, but I didn’t even think Lysander was that good at Herbology, or that he’d even thought about taking it further... Probably just needed some extra funds.”

“You saw Lysander?”

“Of course! It’s a small world,” she said, and she laughed, a twinkling, delicate sound. It seemed to echo. His name had been thrown about so casually, without warning. My closer friends and family would at least talk in hushed tones, throw pre-emptive glances at me, or wait until I was in another room and apparently out of earshot. Rose had not mentioned him since the day he left.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom.”

I felt dazed, and my hands were shaking. I remembered seeing another mirror, another reflection, and Lorcan came up suddenly beside me, and I was paralyzed with happiness. He was smiling at me. His presence seemed to fill the whole room. I knew I couldn’t turn around, I couldn’t look at him directly - but our eyes met in the glass for a long moment; but just as he seemed about to speak, a vapour rolled between us, and I felt myself gradually disappearing.

 

 

They were there, waiting for me in the corridor. Rose was picking at a hangnail, and Maman and Victoire was whispering together, both resplendent and pristine in the harsh fluorescent light.

“Did the healer come? Did he say you could go?”

I ripped the paper identification bracelet from my wrist with shaking fingers.

“Yes, of course. I’m fine. Good to go.” I headed towards the doors, not wanting to run into another healer, someone who might order me back into bed. I didn’t want to be subject to any kind of test. I was fine. I was a little run-down, but I was all right.

“Dom, wait...”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“You fainted.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I said, and I tried to make my voice sound convincing, but it came out watery, like verbal bilge; what I had done to the two journalists threatened to overflow, a stinking secret like rotten sewage. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning. And the dress was too tight, so I couldn’t... you know.”

Maman had stood up. Victoire was looking at me, her expression only slightly condescending.

“I went to your flat,” Rose said. “To get some of your things.”

I didn’t understand what she getting at, and for a second I felt a sharp thrill of terror - what if they had seen the bloody towels, the remnants of my attempts to heal the cuts and grazes on my knuckles. Scorpius had told her something, the bastard. I went to put my hand on the door handle and Rose stopped me.

“The place is a mess,” Victoire said under her breath, so quiet I almost didn’t hear her.

“You haven’t been eating.” The feeling of panic subsided - who cares if you almost beat someone into unconscious when you’re all skin and bones; they should just be impressed that you’ve got the stamina.

“I’ve gone off French food.”

“Dom...”

“I’m fine, really. I just haven’t been shopping lately.” They kept staring at me, and I was so sick of it, of all of these _looks_ , of all these attempts to make sure that I was not broken. _They were trying to help_ , I had told myself over and over again, when Maman dumped another dish on my kitchen table, or when Rose had delivered new books. “ _She’s fragile”_. You can smile politely for so long, after that its just teeth.

None of them, not even Maman or the rest of the war heroes, knew what what _I_ was going through. Rose was crying now, and for once she looked ugly. I felt a dark swell of pleasure.

“There’s no way you can do this alone,” Victoire was saying, but I tried not to listen to her. She made it sound like a challenge, as if she knew she could survive if it was her, daring me to try and best her.

“I want to.”

“Dominique, please...”

I wanted to scream at them. I felt hot, angry and embarrassed, embarrassed that I had _fainted_ , like some damsel in distress, like Victoire; even strong, reliable Rose was crying and I felt like laughing at her.

“She’s always been like this,” Victoire added, staring directly at me, “thinks she’s tougher than she is. I always wondered what she’d do to maintain this façade.”

“Victoire!” Maman scolded her.

“We’ll do anything, please... Dom... I’d do anything to help you. You know that.” Rose sniffled ungainly, like a child. My mind flittered back to the alleyway, to the man lying broken and bloody on the floor. I was being followed. My fleeting paranoia had allowed me to evaluate every avenue, every possibility, at high speed. Maybe I was right this morning, maybe Noah’s accomplices were simply proof of Rose’s uncompromising need to help me, that she would do anything to protect me.

I was burning, my skin flaring, pink and blotchy. I pushed at the door, feeling a strange mixture of anger and arrogance, a new kind of energy. In a moment of perfect clarity, I realised that the trembling had passed. Rose’s grip faltered on my arm as I left them standing there, and walked until I entered the reception of St. Mungo’s. It only occurred to me then that I must have walked passed Lorcan’s old office.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt peaceful. Not happy. Not sad. Not anxious. All the higher parts of my brain were closing up shop: the cerebral cortex, the cerebellum. The white noise that had been playing in my ears since I had woken in the hospital seemed to cease, and was replaced by the humdrum babbles and beeps of the hospital’s reception.

The door swung shut behind me, and nobody followed.

This is the biggest mistake I could think would save me. I wanted to give up the idea that I had any control. Shake things up. To be saved by chaos - by whatever Atticus had planned for me, by seeking revenge. To see if I could cope, I wanted to force myself to grow again. To explode my comfort zone.

It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.

 

 

“Ah, Dominique. Hello.”

Noah Bryant rose from his chair, smiling. From this perspective - a handsome man at home in his lavishly decorated office, dressed in dark, expensive robes, surrounded by proof of his unparalleled success ( _“the youngest editor in a century, and look at that smile!”_ ) - I could see what Rose saw in him. It had what I had seen in Lorcan, most definitely. Noah Bryant was certainly wonderfully handsome: strong jaw, frank blue eyes, and shining dark hair. There was something in his face that, if you had not met before, made you trust him at once.

I sat in a chair opposite his, and he gestured to a vast array of bottles and glasses that decorated an antique drinks cabinet. I shook my head. He beamed even more brightly, and sat down himself. He seemed to act as if I had not beaten and broken the nose of his lap dog, the journalist that had followed me into dark alleyways. Noah began searching the drawers of his desk for something.

“So, how have you been?”

The small talk surprised me, and I balked at him.

“You look well, given the circumstances.” He was rummaging through his belongings now, not looking at me. I wondered if he was talking about Lorcan’s death or about the incident in the alleyway.

“Thank you, but...”

“Rose told me you had a dress fitting today. How did it go?” He rifled through an envelope before chuckling, straight white teeth glinting. “I imagine you spent a vast amount of money, but I am sure you will all look fabulous regardless of what you wear.”

He spoke in a way that would please my parents, that would please the thousands of middle-aged women that worshipped Witch Weekly - he could easily predict and pander to people’s needs. 

“Goodness knows we need something to cheer us up. I hope you’re looking forward to the wedding.”

“Yes, I think...”

“They are not going to press charges, if that puts you at ease.” I started at the abrupt change of conversation, the blunt way in which Noah had breached the topic. He seemed finally to have found whatever he was looking for - a stack of typed parchment, and a couple of photographs. “Miss Wilkinson and Mr Grey have been with the magazine for a very long time, and I trust them completely. They agreed that I could settle this matter with you, face-to-face.”

I remembered the girl, young and nervous and trembling, and her male colleague. I briefly wondered whether he had lost any teeth. 

Noah had returned to the stack of papers on his desk, and began reading and signing. “I suppose you’re wondering why I had you followed in the first place, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Our dear readers have been very distressed by this whole ordeal,” he said, and spoke as if that did not include him. I remembered his blotchy face at the funeral, and his long-winded and indulgent eulogy. “They want to know about the circumstances in which a young, brilliant man like Lorcan - a healer, to top it off - could be murdered.”

“The circumstances?”

“His lifestyle, his finances, his acquaintances. Even with your existing public profile, readers wanted to know more about you, your relationship with Lorcan, et cetera, et cetera.”

“And that’s why you had me followed? For a story?”

Noah smiled, still looking at his papers. “I think you’ve forgotten that I run a very successful magazine where the quality and execution of stories must be kept at a consistently high standard.”

“And you’d abuse your own relationships to achieve that goal?”

Noah finally looked at me, and laughed again. “I don’t think we should pretend that we have any sort of relationship, should we, Dominique? When Lorcan passed, our only real connection faded.”

“And Rose? She’s my best friend.”

Another smile. “Yes, of course.”

There was silence as Noah returned to his stack of papers, consistently reading through and signing. He seemed totally unphased by the entire situation; he had also, apparently, got over Lorcan’s death so successfully that he could exploit the details for his own gain.

“You could always give me an exclusive interview - it would save a lot of hassle, and obviously minimize the likelihood of such violent events occurring again.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I said. Noah smiled again, and carefully replaced his quill.

“I don’t think you realise how much trouble you are in, Dominique, nor how much damage I could cause you by releasing this information. According to my colleagues, they were not the only ones following you, and definitely the only ones doing it for such an innocent reason.”

I scoffed. He handed me a news column, and several pictures.

“This is a mock up of the article I would have published - complete with photographs." My face, gaunt and pale, with Scorpius at my shoulder; the man's broken nose. "It outlines your violent nature, your possible involvement in Lorcan's death... Your friendship with Malfoy.”

“What?”

“I could hand this over to Aurors without blinking an eye - our ‘relationship’ be damned. I’m sure they’ll find it very interesting - this violent streak of yours.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr Grey does. Lorcan probably did too.”

_“We’re the same.”_ I shook my head, knocking the memory out of line. I didn’t know what Noah was trying to suggest. Perhaps he, like my swarms of cousins, like Rose and Scorpius and Victoire and Teddy, thought that Lysander was innocent - that there was another guilty party. Noah’s eyes twinkled, and I stared again at the report he had handed me.

_Miss Weasley was followed into a dark alleyway by two of our correspondents. Mr Grey was savagely beaten and Miss Wilkinson forced to relinquish certain objects and information by Miss Weasley and her accomplice, Ar. Scorpius Malfoy. Mr Grey suffered a fractured skull and a broken nose, while Miss Wilkinson recovers from shock. Weasley’s boyfriend, Hlr. Lorcan Scamander, was murdered earlier this month in what appears to be a crime of passion. Sources suggest Malfoy and Weasley’s ‘close friendship’ has blossomed in the weeks following the incident - whether this is motive for murder, we have yet to determine. Malfoy’s family has a history of Death Eater affiliations and anti-Muggle leanings... (Continued on page 11)._

“You can’t be serious.”

“You see? It serves a dual purpose. One: it outlines the truth of the events of that morning. Two: it discredits Scorpius Malfoy and suggests that he is involved both in dark magic, and with you.”

Something settled in my stomach, heavy as lead. This wasn’t the result of reader demand. The reporters had not been following me - they had been following Scorpius. Noah had attempted to shame Scorpius, to show him in a bad light, in front of Rose. He was clearly threatened by him.

“This is about Scorpius, isn’t it?”

“Did you know that they had kissed? After she told him that I had proposed, he kissed her.” Noah asked, his tone the same as when he had been threatening me. I recoiled. Rose had not told me, but I wasn’t surprised. Anything that happened in Rose’s life that was not planned, was not discussed and detailed within an inch of its life, seemed to endanger the golden perfection that coloured her every move. Talking about it with me would have made it real.

But something didn’t add up. Scorpius had never threatened the seemingly imperturbable force that was Rose and Noah - how could he threaten rich, successful, handsome Noah? They had always existed in an otherworldly plain, above us mere mortals. Rose was headstrong, annoyingly so, and she wouldn’t have accepted his proposal if she didn’t want to. I suppose Noah just wanted insurance, wanted to be certain that Rose’s feelings for her childhood friend remained just that - or delved into something negative, something darker.

Noah gathered the article and photographs, and placed them carefully in a drawer. He turned a key, locking them away.

“I won’t publish it,” he said, and I swelled with relief.

“Guilty conscious?”

“I need something from you.”

I waited for him to speak again.

“Just... just discourage him. Discourage her, if that’s an issue as well. I don’t want this going any further.” He spoke about their relationship as if it was some publishing problem, some workplace rumour or game that had got out of hand.

I thought it would be worse. 

“Fine.”

“You and Rose are very different, aren’t you? Two completely different creatures.” He was staring at me with almost unabashed fascination. “I wouldn’t have thought you would have accepted so quickly. I wouldn’t have thought that you were capable of what happened to Mr Grey.”

“I’m capable of many things, Noah.” My voice was too loud.

“Of course you are,” he said, smiling, and my skin flared at his patronising tone. “I shouldn’t have underestimated you. The Aurors clearly have. Perhaps even Lorcan...”

I stood abruptly, and walked away from his desk. I could hear the clatter and workings of the journalists and printer on the other side of the door. Noah stood behind his desk.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to tell Rose about anything of this whole mess, I’ve been very busy here and Rose with wedding plans. I had hoped that we would keep this between us, Dominique.”

“And if I don’t?”

He pulled the desk key out of his pocket, smiling again. I opened the door, and Noah’s secretary smiled at me as well. The clatter of typewriters filled my ears, and suddenly I felt sick, casting Scorpius aside in return for my own security. The determination that had flared within me during the walk from the hospital had ceased, and I was embarrassed, unsure of what I thought I would achieve by confronting this man.

“Goodbye, Dominique,” Noah called.

I left him as I found him.

 


	10. Mossbury Walton

It felt like some bizarre dream, lit in light and shadow.

Lorcan was asking me to say it again. He was running his drunken fingers through my hair, eyes rimmed with darkness, hooded, but still glittering in the darkness of the dusty room. Again, he asked. Not quite tenderly, but warmer than before, or maybe that was just the feeling of his stinking breath on my face.

“I love you,” I repeated.

The words acted like a starting pistol. He pushed me up against the desk, and I gasped at the sudden movement, and the sound of my back slamming into the wall. Tears filled my eyes, but he was kissing me, harshly, deeply. I couldn’t catch my breath.

I heard myself yelling, asking him to stop. He pushed me down onto the table and tore at my dress. He kissed me again and I kissed him back, fervent, and when his hands pushed my skirt up, I helped him.

“I love you,” I said again. But he ignored me, avoiding my eyes, hands on my thighs, throwing away my underwear. I heard myself repeat it, but nothing. I suddenly felt very distant from the horrible scene - but I was saying his name, in a blur of pain and pleasure, but his eyes were clenched shut.

“Lorcan…”

And then it was over.

His hands lingered, but they felt different: colder, smoother and hairless. Gloves. They were at my arms and my knees, and holding my eyelids open. Sudden, bright light… but just for a second before I slipped back into darkness, and Lorcan was kissing me again.  

There was a sharp stab, a prick of a needle, and I winced. Noticing my discomfort, Lorcan kissed me at my elbow, where it hurt, but soon his hands were in my hair, distracting me. A sharp snip as he took a lock of it.

I drifted, in a constant state of disorientation, and I almost wound up believing that it didn’t happen at all. The memory already seemed vague and starry with unreality, like a dream where the details got fainter the harder you tried to grasp them. They had left no trace - I had woken in my bed, without a scratch on me, hours or days later, who knew - no matter how hard I looked in the mirror for a discernible change. 

 

 

I wrapped my coat tighter around me, stumbling through the haze of fog. The woman in front of me was just visible as I followed her obediently through the streets and shadows of the small village. The moonlight reflected off the windows of the tiny cottages, the picturesque pond and the face of my watch. Midnight. A car screeched somewhere in the distance, and my grip tightened on my wand.

A message had been delivered to my flat earlier that day. Stumbling into my kitchen, dazed and confused, I found the note propped up on the mantlepiece. I wondered how it had got there. I spent the rest of the day in a cold sweat, unable to commit to anything, even to sleep. I spent the afternoon staring out of the window onto the street below, waiting for my attackers to have another go, to take more samples.

The woman was wearing a red carnation in her buttonhole, as the letter said, and she stood in the street, gazing up at me. The stream of commuters and shoppers didn’t seem to phase her, and I changed hurriedly and bustled down the stairs to join her. She grabbed my arm, we apparated away, and we had been walking for a while.

It was all very strange, but then I hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe something a bit sleeker, a bit smoother - and Atticus should have been here. The woman I was following was small but wiry, with tanned, weathered skin and strong arms. Imagining - and expecting - the dark and decadent looks of the Death Eaters, I was surprised to see her blast a stray cat back into the hedgerow when it hissed at her. I had barely got my own wand out of my jacket, my reactions slow from weeks of sleep. 

I almost walked into her when she stopped suddenly by the front door of a small terraced house.

“You wait here,” she said. I nodded. She disappeared inside and I stamped my feet, hoping to get some feeling back into my toes. Briefly, I contemplated leaving - it was too cold, and I was tired, and I thought that maybe assassinating people wasn’t my scene… But then Atticus was in the doorway, and smiling at me, and I remembered the opportunity he had given me.

_“… If somebody offered me a chance for revenge, I would take it.”_

“Dominique, welcome.” Atticus said, and I tried to shake the image of Lysander being blasted apart by a green flash of light, of my hands covered in Copperfield’s blood. “Come in.”

The house was small and perfectly neat and tidy. There was sparse furniture, and no decoration to suggest that this was somebody’s home.

“Where are we?” I enquired, with a glance at Atticus. “If I can ask?”

“This is one of our safe houses. We’re in Mossbury Walton, just outside of Taunton.”

“That was easy,” I said, and Atticus nodded.

“There’s no point in keeping anything from you now.”

The woman moved slightly, enough to creak the floorboards. I looked at her.

“This is Miriam,” he said.

“Right.”

Atticus’ hand rattled on the door handle, and Miriam’s head turned at the sound. “Shall we get started then? Dom, if you want to just follow me in here.”

He opened the door, and we entered what appeared to be a study, with pieces of furniture covered in dust sheets. Another man was waiting inside, facing the corner, but at the sound of our footsteps, he turned and opening his arms wide in greeting.

“Aah, Miss Weasley. Hello.”

He was tall and held remnants of great good looks, a man of exceedingly aristocratic type, languid and overly refined and dressed in sweeping, midnight blue robes. I could see the resemblance between him and his son, although Iago Debole bore no horrific battle scars.

“It’s so nice to put a face to the name. Welcome.”

I sat. Debole took the desk chair.

“Miriam, if you would leave us.”

The door shut with a snap.

I felt my body settle, a release of tension.

“This operation, I…” I began, but Debole put up a hand to stop me.

“All in good time, my dear,” he replied. Atticus pulled a sheath of documents out of his case, and gave them to his father to sign. The ritual took place in almost absolute silence, aside from the scratching of quill on parchment, the whisper of sheets. The fog crept at the study windows.

“Alert the Minister about the last notice. Thank you, Atticus,” Debole said, and stacked the documents neatly in front of him, eventually facing me. “Now, Dominique. What you are about to see and hear here is highly confidential. You are not to share any information with anyone who is not employed by this outfit. You must not tell anyone the location of this safe house, or that you have had contact with Atticus or myself. Do you understand?”

I nodded, alarmed by the sincerity of his tone. But it was necessary, obviously - secrets must be kept safe.

“Did my son outline the main details of the mission you will undertake?”

I would kill Henry Copperfield. He had killed thirteen Muggles. Killing him would be just like catching him and making him live out his life in Azkaban. Killing him was better than making him live without a soul, even if there were enough pieces of it left.

“He did.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“I’m sure you’ll answer them.”

Debole handed me a file. I opened it, only to find pages and pages of facts, figures, and photos of Henry Copperfield. There were his medical and psychiatric reports, several photos of him leaving and entering what appeared to be his home, and some Muggle police reports on his victims. There were photos of them, too: still and unmoving like the pictures they were in, eyes blank and staring, bleeding and broken.

“Henry Bartholomew Copperfield, born on the 27th January, 1982. His father is a Muggle primary school teacher, his mother works for Magical Maintenance. He escaped the anti-Muggleborn regime when his family emigrated to Salem during the war. His sister,” he indicated a photo in the file, “now works for the Daily Prophet, as a junior intern.”

Debole pulled a map from his own pile of documents, with several red dots spread all over Europe. A group of seven or eight was clustered over Great Britain. 

“Copperfield himself works for the Portkey Office in the Department of Magical Transportation. This is how he travels around Europe undetected, as it is difficult to generate unauthorised portkeys thanks to new legislation.”

“So he had opportunity?”

“Ample. But we’re unsure of his motive at this stage.”

Lysander had hated his brother.

“He seems to solely target Muggles, some Squibs, but we think they might be accidental. They are the ones who he takes less time over, and their bodies are easier to find.”

“Copperfield has friends in very high places. His ability to get portkeys authorised makes him very useful to people. Sources tell us he’s been offered Quidditch match tickets, gift baskets, money. He’s been connected with diplomat Hana Bhargava, head of Law Enforcement Elizabeth Cambridge, and Witch Weekly editor Noah Bryant.”

His name was written, in small, unassuming font, on the list of known associates. It didn’t surprise me.

“So, by association, your cousin…”

“Rose.”

“Yes. Miss Weasley. I assume she’s benefitted from the fruits of this particular partnership.”

Those times she had visited, breathless and excited, with new freckles and a new perfume; spontaneous visits to Paris, she had said, holidays with Molly and Louis, trips to the continent. I had smiled through all of it, silently fuming that Lorcan hadn’t done the same.

“They’re getting married,” I said, as if they wouldn’t already know.

Debole finally put down his quill. He pulled something rose red from the depths of the file and passed it to me. I glimpsed at the delicately embossed card, the elaborate cursive; _You are cordially invited to…_

“The wedding…”

“Copperfield is invited.”

“And that’s where…”

“Plenty of people around, lots of chaos, lots of fuss. No one would suspect you, as you are the maid of honour. We’ll give you the tools and the training you need, we’ll get to those details later. It’ll be quiet and quick. It’s not what he deserves, but it’s definitely easier this way.”

I stared at him, and he continued.

“I understand why you might be unwilling to commit…”

Harry would be there. And Teddy. And Scorpius, I guessed, if harboured some desire to win her back. Whole legions of the Weasley family were employed by the Auror Office or the Law Enforcement Squad. All of my aunts and uncles had fought in the war, and the majority had come out unscathed. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

“… Owing to the fact that it’s your cousin’s wedding.”

_Rose._ I nodded.

“It’s important that you keep in mind what he has done to deserve this punishment. Most of our recruits feel that helps. To justify it.”

“That makes sense.” I relayed the reasons over again. Some sort of mantra.

“I can also appreciate why this entire exercise may be quite daunting. Killing a person is difficult. It takes a sort of professionalism, a cold efficiency. Some people are just not up to the task.”

Atticus was looking at me, and I automatically straightened, trying to display such resolve. 

“And, of course, the compensation will be considerable, if that helps.”

He slid a piece of parchment across the desk, and I saw lots of digits, Gringotts vault numbers, gold and silver and jewels. But that wasn’t what interested me, what drove me.

“When do I get to go to France?”

“France?” Debole asked, but his son answered.

“Lorcan Scamander’s murderer…” Atticus said, and his father’s hand jittered suddenly to the stack on papers on the desk, “is in France. Dom was hoping to…”

“The brother?”

The hand recoiled, relaxed. Atticus nodded.

“What’s the possible exposure?”

“Limited. Different country.”

“Timings?”

“We’ll wait.” Atticus looked at me. “She can wait. If he moves, we’ll adapt.”

“Very well.”

“As an incentive.”

“I understand.”

The soothing calm of an anti-climax. Atticus smiled weakly, and I nodded back.

“Right then,” Debole said, and he was bright, cheerful, clapping his hands together. “That seems to be all. You’ll start training in a week, and I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork beforehand. Any questions?”

“I don’t…”

“Well, you’ve got the file. There’s plenty of information in there, and you can contact Atticus at any time.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll pick you up. Miriam will escort you home.” Another follower, another lurker outside the window. Perhaps she can buddy up with the Aurors and Noah’s underlings, swap stories. “We’ll work out some phrases, some stage craft, so you know who we are and you know who we’re working with. Until then, anyone wearing a red carnation.”

“We’ll keep you updated on Copperfield, as well,” Atticus chimed in. “It’s been weeks since his last kill. We expect something - someone - in the next couple of days. But we’re still working on getting someone into the Portkey Office.”

“All right,” I said.

“Is there nothing we can do to prevent it?” Debole asked.

“It’s difficult. Any move on our part may alert him to the fact we’re on to him.”

“Well, we should act as quickly as possible,” Debole said, shaking his head. “To think that the victim is just out there…”

“Right,” I said, and then, because they might be able to do something about it, “Noah’s been having me followed.”

Debole looked to Atticus.

“Yes. We know,” his son said.

“For a story,” I added. “About Lorcan.”

Debole scribbled something on his parchment. “We’ll see what we can do about that.”

“There’s also an issue relating to the people that followed her,” Atticus said, and again, he pulled a file out of his briefcase, “They were gone from St. Mungo’s before I could question them.”

“They aren’t going to press charges,” I said quickly. “That’s what Noah said.”

“You’ve talked to him about this?” Debole asked, flashing me a photo of My Grey’s broken nose. His tone was soft, but disappointed. I was suddenly in the Head of House’s office, staring at my shoelaces, or in the kitchen with Maman jabbering away in rapid French. My face glowed red.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It’s settled.”

Another look shared with his son.

“I have to do something for him in return, that’s all. Nothing serious. Just something silly.”

Debole countered with a raised eyebrow, a scribbled note, and I felt the need to explain further.

“It’s nothing, really. Just some romantic issue. Apparently I’m the only one that can take of it.” I was rambling. “Basically, I have to make sure that my friend Scorpius doesn’t get any ideas about his relationship with Rose, you know, that he doesn’t make any moves on her while she’s with Noah, and vice versa. You know, that she doesn’t like him back, stuff like that. Hogwarts stuff. It’s so irrelevant to anything we’re doing here.”

I wanted to know what he was writing.

“We hadn’t previously understood the extent of your relationship,” Atticus said.

“We don’t have a relationship. We’re not close, we’re not friends… we’re just… I don’t know. Acquaintances.”

“You’re indebted to him.”

“I wouldn’t say that, I don’t think…”

“So this won’t get back to us in any way?”

I thought about the unpublished article, addressing the scope of Mr Grey’s injuries, my relationship with Scorpius, and what Noah had described as my ‘violent streak’. I thought about the pictures that accompanied it, my family’s reaction: Scorpius’ wide-eyed confusion as his bosses pulled him in for a talk at the Auror office; the family’s defiant accusations of slander; Victoire’s sly, knowing smile, her hand on Teddy’s knee.

The Aurors would have a field day. I would be followed again, questioned and interviewed, the case and all its sordid details splashed across the pages of the Prophet and Witch Weekly, and Noah would finally get the story he wanted, regardless of whether I kept my promise to him.

I was taking too long to answer.

“Well…” I started.

“Bryant is a man with considerable means, and a considerable following. Your interaction with these two journalists will not play well with Aurors, and we do not want any extra attention being drawn to our operation.”

“That won’t happen, I don’t think…”

“We’ll consider the possible outcomes.”

“It’s nothing, really.” A desperate laugh escaped.

Debole visibly underlined something on his sheet of notes. The scratching, the stuttering spray of ink across parchment, was louder than a explosion, deafening in the grey, dusty office. The older man wiped at his fingers, the black ink staining. His moves seemed suddenly frenzied, suddenly frustrated.

“I believe you, Dominique,” he said. “But you understand that it is important for us to protect our investment, so to speak.”

“What are you going to do?”

He did not answer. Instead, Atticus left the room. Debole stood, pacing behind his desk.

“I really don’t know him that well,” I said, and I didn’t like how I pleaded. My hands were shaking, and bile bubbled and stung my lips; the very opposite of cold efficiency. The vision of Lysander trussed up and bleeding swam violently in front of my eyes. I didn’t want to lose that opportunity. “I don’t know why this is relevant.”

“We had not expected any… complications… when it came to your relationship with Bryant. It affects some factors.”

“An unwanted connection.”

“Exactly.”

“But he wants to keep this quiet too, I can tell.” I couldn’t.

“That’s a lie. He wants this published.”

“I… I don’t know.”

The vision of Lysander was unravelling, fast. I struggled to knit it back together. Angry tears pricked at my eyes. I was looking at myself, through Debole’s eyes; a spoilt child, realising that the tasty treat is being taking away, making a stand, grasping at straws, attempting to sway his decision. I rearranged my shirt, exposing the top of my breasts, the smooth, pale skin. I could hear a faint ringing, but my hands steadied; blood boiling with Veela charm.

“Dominique…” His voice seemed strangled.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be all right. Atticus will take care of it.”

“I didn’t want to… I didn’t mean for any of it to go this far. I’ve been… different. Since Lorcan’s death, I mean. Paranoid. Especially after everything with Lysander.”

“It’s fine.”

He moved to sit in the chair beside mine, and I could see him up close. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? To slide a hand up his thigh, under the sweeping velvet, my lips slightly open; it had worked before.

“Dominique.”

The ringing stopped. If I hear it for too long, it turns violent.

“Higgins recommended you to me personally, you know,” Debole said, and that surprised me. “You received good scores on your Auror examinations, theory and practical. You’ve got all the right qualifications.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt a familiar swell of pride.

“Thank you.”

“We’re very happy to have you on board.”

I exhaled, heavily. I couldn’t help myself. “Thank you so…”

“But I need you to understand that mistakes like that will not be tolerated. I need you to regain some sort of control. The next couple of weeks will be difficult, but you will get through them.”

_I have to._

“Of course. I know.”

“You are ready?”

“Yes.” A door just closed.

He stood up, and opened the door. Miriam stood sentinel outside.

“Then thank you, my dear. We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes… thank you.”

“Goodbye now.”

Miriam escorted me outside, her hand at my elbow. I glimpsed through an open door, and saw Atticus. The office walls were papered with maps and photographs, and he smiled at me as I passed. I stopped to talk to him, hoping for a glance of Noah in the photos, but Miriam pushed me on.

She opened the front door. The fog still hovered around the sleeping village. I attempted to turn, to say something to Miriam, but she had already gone. Reeling from the night’s events - from Atticus’ promise to deal with Noah, to Debole’s promise of my prize - I twisted on the spot and disappeared into darkness.

 

 

Noises, even tiny ones, had started to jerk on my nerves, accompanied by the visions of gloved hands, creeping and crawling over pale skin. Mostly I was hammered down from having the same nightmare on and off. It seemed to hover over me, waiting for me to drop off; as I lay on my bed, sliding uneasily into sleep, it pounced and grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me down with sickening speed.

Lorcan, a vein throbbing in his temple, spit flying, shouting and screaming. I was tingling, cloaked in that strange vague excitement that seemed to accompany his breakdowns, as I watched his jaw clench, his hands close into fists. I enjoyed it, the feeling of something loosening within me as he lost control.

I had slept all day, face down in the pillow, a comfortable deadman’s float only remotely disturbed by the chill undertone of reality - the slamming of doors, the squawk of Muggle traffic, London itself - which threaded fitfully through the dark, blood-warm waters of my sleep.

I just watched him, a montage of our most severe fights, our most violent encounters; the disastrous night when he had lost a little girl at the hospital, an argument about his brother, and the worst, a terrible gnawing crash of a memory where he had pinned me to the wall by the throat after I had coaxed and provoked him.

And the scene would change, doused in golden sheen, and we were kissing and dancing and laughing, out in the open, in the light. I dreamed of him constantly, but now as an absence: a breeze blowing through a just-vacated house, his handwriting, the smell of him, his shadow against the wall, the sound of footsteps. I glimpsed him in the street, but wasn’t able to catch up with him.

I missed him terribly, a constant agony, like drowning and aching for air.


	11. Distant Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories danced out of reach. Every new event — everything with Lysander, everything with the Deboles, everything I did for the rest of my life — would only separate us more and more: days he was no longer a part of, an ever-growing distance between us.
> 
> Beta'd by bansheee

I took to running.

Heaving my feet around London in a cold, dizzying haze felt more purposeful than the strange, meandering walks I used to take in the immediate wake of Lorcan’s death. The steady pace was comforting, a happy routine. I was too distracted by the dull ache in my calves, the sting of my blisters, and the trickle of sweat down my neck to think about anything else. I would often run for a couple of hours at a bizarre, lolloping pace and end up in different parts of London each time.

Hampstead Heath was beautiful. I had run through Camden, through hordes of Muggles with their shopping bags, with the music blasting and the smell of exotic spices drifting through the narrow lanes. They glanced at my broken and bruised face, but no one said anything, instead bowing their heads and bustling forward. I kept scrutinising the crowd, assuming that the Aurors or Noah’s journalists wouldn’t be too proficient at Muggle dress. No one followed me as I rambled down various alleys and across roads. Nobody, apart from some strange vision of Miriam telling me to go faster, to push myself harder.

“How’s it going?” Atticus had asked, as I signed some more paperwork. “The training. Is it helping?”

“Oh, yes,” I had said, waving two broken and bound fingers at him. “I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

The bruises on my arms were still a deep purple, with tinges of green and yellow. The bones in my wrist had been shattered and mended twice, and the joint was still sore. My mind was bleary with headaches and migraines and concussion, but still, every morning, Miriam would appear in the street below and apparate away with me: dark, claustrophobic forests, the trees just inches apart; windswept moors, miry with lashings of rain; and cold, slimy caves, with the water lapping at my ankles.

The path was shaded, lined with trees. A woman with a pram was strolling towards me. I watched her as she passed, eying her bag and her large overcoat, the positioning of her hands on the pram handle. The baby squealed. She stared at my face, then looked down, obviously shocked.

I felt like shouting at her, but I was breathless.

I could, at last, point to some change, some outward alteration that matched the inner agitation. Physical marks that could signify my mental anguish. The split lip was Victoire’s scathing looks; the black eye a consequence of Rose’s abandonment; the cut across the bridge of my nose proof of Lysander’s betrayal; but still nothing, nothing that could possibly manifest itself as Lorcan’s death. No scar to show his mark on me. A symptom of that wound would come in the form of a lost limb, limping and bleeding, the sickening sense of something missing that should be there.

But I knew that pain would remain inside and invisible, squirming and spewing dark warm blood, gnawing at my innards, sapping my energy, leaving me a husk. A host.

The sprain in my wrist twinged, and I slowed down. I adjusted the bandage, tying it tightly and enjoying the dull ache of pain. The throbbing helped focus me. Miriam had wanted to vanish the cuts and bruises away, but I refused. They also served as a reminder that I was doing something, that I was up and active and not just lounging.

I had lost weight, if that were possible. My ribs, decorated as they were with bruises and dark, disconcerting blotches, were easily visible through my skin. I didn’t know if they were broken. Miriam was instructed to look after me, and she did; after each session, she would strip me down and stare. She pinched at my skin and looked into my eyes, ears, and throat. She muttered healing spells because I hadn’t bothered to learn them. She had provided me with medicines while I changed.

I was coming slowly to the realisation that quiet, sincere, boring Miriam was my only friend.

The ponds were beautiful, the water a great slab of still steel. There were more people here, gathering and laughing and taking photos, and I pushed through them, half jogging. “Watch their hands,” Miriam had said, patrolling around me; “their eyes and their hands. Watch for a change in their centre of gravity.” But it was cold, and the Muggles on the bridge had their hands in their pockets. People were wrapped up and muffled, huge overcoats and hats and scarfs, but nobody turned to watch me run pass. I could take them anyway, even with a sprained wrist.

As the crowd thinned, I slowed down again. My Auror training had been child’s play, easy because I was related to members of the Order of the Phoenix, because Harry Potter was my uncle. I had arrived late, I had walked through most of the more physical activities, I had cheated on tests. Scorpius had more to prove; he was pulled aside on his first day of training to commit to the cause, to prove he wasn’t some sort of double agent.

But Scorpius was busy with work, according to his hastily scribbled notes. He successfully managed to avoid seeing me in the flesh since my altercation with Noah’s lackeys. Perhaps he was scared. Maman and Victoire had not visited since I had been in the hospital. I had not seen Rose in weeks.

There were still a couple of weeks until the wedding. Copperfield was still out there. Lysander was still out there. Atticus was determined that we wait, that it would be harder to get someone a portkey under the new law than to simply wait for the wedding. Perhaps I was lucky Rose didn’t want to see me. I was sure that I would betray something if she was here, in the same room, talking to me and hugging me and looking after me. Something would slip. I didn’t trust myself, and Debole had told me not to make any more mistakes, so I assumed he didn’t trust me either.

But it would be nice to see her face.

I picked up the pace, running through more woodland and crossing another path. I listened to the slap of my feet on the ground, my heaving breathing rattling. My chest was heaving and I could taste blood in my mouth. It was getting easier, though. I lasted longer, this time.

People were pouring out of the entrance to the train station. A pair of tall men stared at me as I passed, but it would be irresponsible to pull out my wand, especially in front of all these Muggles. I squeezed through the crowd.  
“Are you all right, sweetie?”

Someone had tugged on my sleeve, slowing me down. A middle-aged woman, bursting out of her cheap, synthetic clothes, laden with shopping bags.

“I… err…”

Her pudgy hand - decorated with ugly rings - found my arm. I knew it was supposed to comfort me, but her palm was sweaty and her grip too tight.

“You’re bleeding!”

My hand flew to the cut across my eyebrow, and came away with blood on my fingers. I looked up. The two tall men had disappeared into the crowd.

“I’ve got some tissues in here somewhere,” the woman was saying, rummaging through her bag. “I always have some on me, you know? My kids get covered in all sorts of things…”

I found myself staring into her face, saw her mouth moving with vigour, but failed to comprehend a single word. I looked intently into her face - the too tanned, wrinkled skin, the tacky jewellery - and wondered whether she was as bland as she seemed. She had stopped, when the mother with the pram hadn’t. She was worried for me, when the tourists on the bridge hadn’t been.  
Her wide, open face perplexed me; she was walking around unarmed, not expecting a fight. She gabbling now, telling her secrets to anyone who would listen. I soaked them up.

A tissue waved in front of my face.

“I thought I’d lost you for a second! Here you go.”

I took it. She smiled at me.

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No.”

Her face faltered then, gawking.

“Most people would say thank you,” she said, gathering her things around her. “I’m sorry I offered.”

I forced myself to retain some illusion of politeness.

“I’m sorry… I don’t mean…”

The cut stung as I pressed the tissue to my forehead, and the woman pursed her lips together. The swell of people from the station surged around us, the moment hanging in the air. I had spent too much time alone, too much time isolated; we were standing like rocks in a sea of moving people, and I didn’t know what to say.

She turned and left.

The world seemed to crash back into clarity. Turning around and starting to run again, I tried to shake the image of her wide, unobtrusive face staring at me in disappointment, in anger. I struggled to fall back into rhythm; it was difficult to avoid the growing crowds, and I had to slow to a walk.

I was distracted - vague memories swarmed in an indistinct mass in front of my eyes, confusing yet colourful, almost nauseating - and I stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the pavement. Ignoring the protests of the people walking behind me, I slumped to the ground, head in my hands.

It was unexpected, the way grief would pound over me in waves, the way it left me gasping. I could pick images of Lorcan out of the swirling cloud, but they dissipated quickly, no matter how hard I tried to hold on. We were in the library at Hogwarts… or maybe it was London. We were at Shell Cottage, splashing each other and laughing in the sea, but it could have just as easily been the lake. We were kissing, in a tangle of sheets, but it could have been Lysander.

The memories danced out of reach. Every new event — everything with Lysander, everything with the Deboles, everything I did for the rest of my life — would only separate us more and more: days he was no longer a part of, an ever-growing distance between us. Perhaps I should suspend myself in the moment when I found out he had died, so as to avoid such detachment. Every single day for the rest of my life, he would only be further away.

The wave washed back, and I found myself staring out at the street, the faces of the shops and of the people grey and brackish and empty. I closed my hand around my wrist, and squeezed. The sharp pain was fleeting, but seemed to sharpen my senses. I needed food. I needed water. I struggled to feet, but I felt dizzy, an instinctive awareness of the void.

A voice filtered through.

“Dom?”

 

* * *

 

 

“And if you could just raise your arms for me, please.”

I obliged. The handsome healer gently prodded my armpits, searching for swelling. He had healed my wrist with a flick of his wand. The cut on my forehead was gone, but there were several spots of dark blood on my hospital gown.

“No lumps or anything, that’s good,” he said, making a note on his clipboard. “No infection.”

“Are you going to do any scans?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Dom,” he said. The use of my first name felt too intimate, but this healer was talkative. Or perhaps I had met him while Lorcan was alive. “I’ve checked out all your bangs and scrapes, nothing too serious.”

He shone his lit wand into my eyes, and asked me to look in different directions.

“You’re not going to tell me what you’ve been up to, are you?”

“Oh, I…” His warm hands were checking my wrist again, tracing his wand over the skin. “No. I mean… I can’t.”

“Or won’t?”

‘I’m training to be an assassin’ sounded laughable.

“I’m an Unspeakable.”

He looked up at me. His eyes were beautiful.

“Wow…” He said, nodding. “That’s impressive.”

“Sure,” I said. I left it a bit too late before saying, “thank you.”

“What NEWTs did you take?”

His hands were gently massaging my wrist, moving up my forearm.

“Defence Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, History of Magic, Potions, and Charms.”

“Good choices.”

He sounded genuine. They were Rose’s subjects, mine were less impressive.

“So do you have a… specialty? A particular field that you work in?” he asked. I opened my mouth to answer, but he had already guessed it. “I suppose you can’t really tell me. But I imagine it must be quite dangerous, for you to get all these.”

“I guess.”

I tried to smile but he was dabbing at my split lip with some ointment.

“I imagine you’re quite tough then.”

He looked straight at me then, his face very close, his hands on my chin, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

The cut reopened.

“Yeah, it’ll take a minute.” The healer made some notes on his clipboard, before returning to me. He placed his hands on either side of my face, ungloved now, warm but cautious. He turned my head slowly to the left, and then the right. He checked my glands, made sure my jaw wasn’t broken.

Again, too intimate.

“There you go,” he said, finally. His hands lingered on my shoulders for a second; but only a moment. “You look much better.”

Prettier.

“I need you to lie back now,” he said, and I obliged, reclining on the cold examining table. His hands found my ankles, twisting them, asking if I could feel any pain.

“I’ve met you before,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember?”

I didn’t trust my memory anymore, biased as it was. His fingers are trailing up my leg now, still poking and prodding, his wand swishing. The grazes on my knees disappear, the skin warm.

“It was here, one of those terrible fundraising things.”

“Right.”

I felt the tendons in my knee writhe and rearrange.

“Scamander was being honoured with some award or other,” he continued. I knew exactly what he was talking about – the glass trophy still sat on my mantelpiece, next to the picture of the twins, gathering dust – but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t remember the healer. “And you were both sitting at my table.”

I struggled through a fog of memory. He was handsome enough to warrant some recall, surely. I could have used him in some way to make Lorcan jealous, make a game of it, as was typical at those boring events. I could have used him to…

Something constricted in my chest, tightening. If I only I could remember his name, the name he had given me when I had arrived. But my memory was slippery, twisting to accommodate my prejudices; I had been obedient and beautiful, hanging onto Lorcan’s arm, feeding him, playing with his hair. But the image altered, shattered, and I was convinced that I had done something bad, something long ago, something that seemed to justify what was happening now.

“You were wearing this dress…”

His fingers moved, tantalizingly close, feeling my thigh under the gown. It felt good, to be touched by someone like that, to be felt so greedily, even to feel greedy. Lorcan would know, he’d understand. It was him, in another body.

“And you kept looking at me,” he continued, his voice soft, seductive. “I couldn’t think straight… I spilt my drink…”

I kept my eyes open. The healer’s features were harsh under the fluorescent lights, but I wanted to see what could be seen of him, take him in, memorise him. I ought to have done that with Lorcan, paid more attention to the details of him rather than trying to recall these vague, fragmented images. It felt like he was fading, receding, and I had become more faithless.

He was too close, and I felt like I was going to explode.

“You know how I wanted to…”

But the scene shifted. The sounds of the outside world flooded back in – someone was outside, shouting and knocking at the door – and I sat up quickly, rearranging my gown. The healer had already disappeared to the other side of the room, rummaging in the cupboards, making notes on his clipboard.

Rose stood in the doorway.

“The nurse outside said you were taking her for blood tests,” she said, immediately walking up to the healer. “It sounds serious.”

“Just procedure,” he replied, not looking at me. “She’s a bit off colour.”

“Right.”  

There was silence. I pulled the curtain around the bed, sliding back into my clothes. I imagined how much he wanted to watch.

“I can’t really give you any more details,” he continued. “Confidentiality.”

“I’m family.”

She had found me on the street. I had been bruised and broken and bloodied, and she had brought me to the hospital. I fought against the embarrassment that flooded through me. I hated her pitying looks. I had waited and waited – sat in the hospital foyer, in the corridor waiting for the healer - for her to say that she was right, that I couldn’t look after myself. But nothing. Instead we sat in silence.

“She had a fit?”

“She’s just run down,” the healer was saying. “She’s already on a course of vitamin boosters, but she needs more rest.”

“And the bruises? The cut on her forehead?”

“Easily fixed.”

“How did she get them?”

“From her job.”

“Her job?”

I pushed the curtain back. They both turned to look at me: Rose, indignant; the healer, sheepish. I shrugged in response.

“Thank you.”

He scurried out of the room.

“Rose,” I started, feeling charged, still gripping the gown. “I want to…”  
She held open the door.

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rose’s apartment was sprawling, with huge windows and high ceilings. Evidence of her perfect taste was everywhere, from the coordinated pillows and curtains, to the intricate artwork on the walls. Pictures of her and Noah with matching smiles, of her and me, of her with other cousins decorated the open surfaces. I remembered the various cocktail parties that had happened here, the birthday parties, and the dinners that I had never felt comfortable at. There was something alien vying for dominance, an aesthetic that was somehow dangerous and foreign: Noah.

She flung her keys into a decorative bowl on a table by the door, placing her handbag next to it. I followed her into the pristine kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine and kicked her heels off. I sat at the table.

“Where’s Noah?”

“Work.”

“And you…”

“Took the day off,” she replied, tapping at the piles of notes and books on the countertop, “for thesis research.”

I nodded.

“Do you want any food?”

“Yes,” I replied, too loudly.

“Right, okay,” she said. She opened the cupboards and started pulling ingredients from the fully-stocked shelves. She lit the gas hob with her wand, boiled the kettle. The room was suddenly filled with the sound of boiling water and the chopping of vegetables.

Rose had never been a good cook, but I was desperate. She hosted dinner parties, took cooking classes, but it still wasn’t enough. I imagine she thought that it would enhance her image as the caregiver, following in the footsteps of Nana Molly with food and hugs and kind words as the ultimate answer to any kind of strife.

She was butchering the onions now, tears streaming.

“Why don’t you just use your wand?”

“I can’t remember the spell.”

That was unlike her. I expected she just wanted something to do rather than confront me. She felt more productive with a knife in her hands.  
The onions sizzled as she fried them in oil.

“The healer seemed nice.”

Did she know? For all I knew, she could have been there too, at the gala, applauding politely and laughing at Noah’s inane jokes. She could have witnessed it.

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything else to you? Any about your condition?”

“Just to keep taking my medicine. Rest up.”

“And you’ll do that?”

Not if Miriam has anything to say about it. “Yes.”

“Good. Because this is the second time…” She paused. I knew what she was thinking about: the last time I was in the hospital after I had fainted, I had walked out on her, refused her. The garlic joined the onions, and she stirred. The smell made my mouth water.

“He said something about your job,” Rose continued.

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought Higgins let you go.”

“He did.”

“So…” She looked up at me then.

“I told him I was an Unspeakable.”

“Why did you do that?”

“He asked about…” I waved my hand in front of my newly healed face. “Seemed like a plausible reason as to why I looked so beaten up.”

Rose was chopping mushrooms, stalks flying everywhere. Her movements seemed erratic, distracted. I had spotted a ladder in her tights on the way in, a stray hair just out of place. It comforted me; to think that there was something malfunctioning under the façade.

“And why do you look so beaten up?”

Because I have been beaten up. “Oh. It’s nothing, really.”

“Dom…”

“I just… I don’t know. It was just a black eye, nothing serious. Like the healer said.”

“You can’t lie to me as well.”

I wanted to laugh but I felt queasy, guilty that Rose thought our relationship was strong and special enough to prevent me from lying to her. I rearranged my expression into one of acquiescence, as if she had worn me down, as if she were right. As if I respected our relationship that much.

“I’ve started running.”

She finally put the knife down.

“And?”

“And what? That’s it.”

Rose was expecting something more suspicious.

“Oh. I was expecting… that’s really something…” she replied, resuming her chopping.

“Lorcan used to do it,” I said. “Running. All the time. I thought maybe that it would be nice to, you know…”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. Lorcan was my trump card, my saving grace. She immediately averted her gaze. “Of course. Anything to be close to him, I get it.”

No, you don’t.

“I fell in Hampstead Heath this morning,” I said, wary that too much information might give me away. “Tripped over someone’s dog and fell weirdly on my wrist. A branch caught me in the face, flicked into my eye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just clumsy, is all. Painful, though.”

Rose tipped the mushrooms into the pan.

“I can imagine,” she said.

Silence again. I plucked at the grapes in the fruit bowl.

“So… running.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Oh, just a couple of weeks.”

“Right.”

She stirred the pan, adding rice and seasoning.

“And you enjoy it?”

“I guess,” I said. “Makes me feel a bit healthier, I suppose.”

“Sure.”

I stood, walking to the other side of the room. The couple had framed important front covers of Witch Weekly; a cover depicting Noah’s promotion; his winning of the Most Charming Smile Award; Hermione’s inauguration at the Wizengamot; and Teddy and Victoire’s wedding. I stared at the bright colours, the cursive font, and the promise of scandalous sex tips and interesting recipes and Celestina Warbeck.

“Will you let them be there?”

“What?” Rose answered.

“The magazine. The reporters and photographs. At your wedding.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she replied, stirring the food, not looking at me, keeping busy. “I’m not sure about on the actual day, but maybe we could sell some of the photos…”

I scoffed. Victoire was twirling in a white dress on one of the covers, beautiful and resplendent. Teddy was by her side. I could see my hand in the corner, grasping a bouquet.

“Might be a bit intrusive.”

Might catch me red-handed, with photographic evidence.

“I suppose,” she said, and then, more authoritatively, “but Noah has certain responsibilities, you know, regarding the magazine’s circulation and readership. They’d want to see it. It’d sell well.”

So would an exclusive detailing Dominique’s Weasley violent streak! Murderer or just misunderstood?

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, and Rose laughed.

I continued to peruse the magazine covers. I could tell that she was looking at me, inspecting me, on the verge of saying something meaningful. The small talk had just been a warm up; she had wanted to gauge my mood, how I would respond if provoked.

I shouldn’t have told a joke.

“And look here,” I started, attempting to cut her off, “here I am! ‘Dominique Weasley bares all in the South of…”

“What do you do?”

I turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“During the day. I know you don’t work at the Auror office anymore and you’re definitely not an Unspeakable. And you haven’t been seeing the family or anything. And Victoire said…” I groaned instinctively, but Rose continued. “And Victoire said that you’re never at Shell Cottage, even though Fleur invites you all the time.”

“It’s because she’s there.”

“Merlin, Dom…”

“Fine. I go running.”

“All day?”

“No.”

“Then what?”  
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t look at her, so I stared intently at the tiny Victoire on the cover, imagining breaking the glass frame, tearing it up, throwing it in the fire, watching the ink in her face bubble and burn. “Sit around. Read.”

“Do you see anyone? Does anyone come to visit you?”

Miriam. My tail.

“No.”

“No one? Because Molly said…”

“Not for a while, no. Probably not since you broke in.”

Rose shook her hair back from her face, reasserting herself. She was still convinced that she had done the right thing. The kitchen was filling with an acrid burning smell, but Rose hadn’t noticed.

“You can’t do this alone, Dom.”

“I’m making a good go of it, thank you.”

“I can see that.”

“You just caught me on a bad day.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else?”

“What?”

“Anyone! Any cousins, Louis… Scorpius?”

I turned to face her then. Smoke was rising from the pan behind her but she was staring resolutely at me.

“Oh, that’s clever,” I replied, scathing. “That’s very clever.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t care about what I’ve been up to. You want to know if I’ve seen him. You want to know how he is.”

“I don’t!” She said, too loudly. “I just… I was wondering whether you’re all right, whether there’s anyone looking after you. Because apparently, I can’t.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Dom…”

“You’re wondering if Scorpius is ‘looking after me’, whatever that means. Would you rather he ‘looked after you’?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t ask him to stop.”

“Stop!” She shrieked. We stood in silence, my heart pounding. She turned quickly, fussing with the oven, wafting at the smoke. She dumped the burnt pan into the sink and turned on the tap.

“Why are you like this?”

I picked at the bandage around my wrist.

“He’s got a new girlfriend,” I lied.

“That’s nice.”

“You’ve got a fiancé.”

“I do.”

“Good, you’re practicing.” I replied. “That almost sounded genuine.”

“You can’t just let me be, can you?”

“Hypocritical.”

“You know what I mean.”

“How about we just make an agreement? You don’t interfere in my life, and I won’t interfere in yours. You leave me alone to deal with this, and I won’t continually question your romantic choices.”

“I worry about you.”

The bandage was unravelling.

“He’s happy,” I said. “Scorpius. It’s early days but he’s happy.”

“Good for him.”

“Yes.”

‘And you’re happy too?”

“Of course.”

She started fiddling with the pan now, turning the tap off. She scoured the burnt residue off with her wand and rinsed it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, over the sound of the water. “We have nothing to eat now.”

“It’s all right.”

“I wanted to give you a home-cooked meal.”

“That’s nice.”

“I could ask Noah to bring something back.”

“It’s fine, really.”

The kitchen filled with silence once again. It had always been like this: a strange crescendo of conversation, patterned with small talk and argument. We were both very quick to anger, but Rose was better at maintaining her façade, better at keeping her cool. She was well practiced.

Anyone else, and she would have broken them. I just knew how to deal with her. Mentioning Scorpius was an easy deflection, and served the dual purpose of distracting her and fulfilling my promise to Noah.

“Well… if you want any help, you can just ask.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying that you need it,” she said, but I knew she lying. “But if you ever…”

“I get it.”

“Good.”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a bar of chocolate. She broke off a piece and handed it to me.

And then, too late… “And how are you doing?”

“Don’t be silly, Dom,” she replied, smirking, “not everything is about me.”


	12. Back to Work

The palm of Miriam’s hand collided with my chin, and I stumbled backwards. The world was spinning, and it tasted metallic. I spat a tooth out on the tarmac floor. The neon colours of the surrounding graffiti blurred and I felt more nauseous, a stinging wave of bile rising in my throat. I stumbled to my feet.

“Faster!”

And again; I was spinning on the spot, hands and elbows jabbing into her side, receiving blow after blow around the head, our wands abandoned on the floor. I stepped forward, my fist reaching out towards her face, but she dodged effortlessly, and struck me neatly in the throat.

I couldn’t breathe. I stared into Miriam’s plain, weathered face. She blinked back at me, unassuming, unmarked. I had collected my usual share of bruises and cuts and what felt like a couple of broken ribs, but she was unhurt.

My eyes swam with tears and she frowned at me.

“You’re not getting any better.”

After all those times that Dad had said I was gifted, I was special; those comments on my Auror exams, from my bosses at the Ministry; the constant praise and attention doted on me by my teachers, by my classmates, by my aunts and uncles and relatives… so _beautiful,_ so _clever._ I had perfected each spell easily, was flying naturally on my first broom ride, and discarded boys at every turn…

“Why are you crying?”

I rubbed at my eyes. The salt stung at my bloody knuckles. It was embarrassing, this shame, this anger. I thought of what drove me. Lysander’s face peered out from behind my blurred vision, his skin stretched over gaunt features, teeth missing…

“I can’t…” My voice was hoarse. “Stop…”

“We’ll stop when you’re ready,” she replied. “Up.”

The ligaments in my ankle twisted painfully.

“Again.”

I raised my arms into a defensive position, lowered my centre of gravity. I looked at her carefully, as she had instructed; her dominant side, her posture. I dodged the first jab, and then the second; I aimed a fist at her middle, and felt it collide, my knuckles stabbing into solid muscle. I felt exhilarated, and smiled briefly as she stepped backwards. I brought my hands back up to into my face, ready for the next attack, and…

Her foot slammed into my ankle and I went sprawling. My head slammed into the tarmac floor, and everything went dark.

 

 

 

“Ah, yes. Weasley.”

Jasper Higgins was standing in the doorway, still reading a memo.

“Hello, sir.”

“No need for that. Follow me.”

He held the door open.

Scorpius had arrived unannounced at my flat last night, a bottle of wine in hand, wanting to talk about my meeting with Noah, my short stint in St Mungo’s and, cautiously, my visit to Rose’s apartment. It was a nice evening – I didn’t feel the need to make excuses, I didn’t break out in a cold sweat – until Scorpius pulled out the letter, and slid it across the table. Unsure of how to react in front of him, I shooed him out the door and retreated to my nest of greying sheets.

My chest had constricted to the point of breathlessness.

_New evidence_ , it had read; _alibis, witnesses, modus operandi._

“How have you been?”

I spluttered over the small talk, mild manners lodged under my tongue.

“Fine.”

“You’re keeping active?”

Higgins was struggling as well, apparently.

“My brother-in-law died a couple of years ago, you know,” he continued. “My sister was inconsolable, obviously, but she dealt with it all wrong, you know, she retreated into this hovel and kept away from the world, from her children. Couldn’t stand how much they looked like him. I say she should have got up and went at it, you know? It’s better to bounce back.”

“Right.” _Bounce back and kill someone._

He rambled on, and I played with the edge of my fraying jumper as we walked down the corridor to one of the meeting rooms. The researchers’ room – where I used to work – seemed busy, no different to how I left it. For these people, nothing had changed.

“She’s much better now, of course, really into baking. The children are at Hogwarts, and she’s had a chance to reflect and everything. At least she’s not crying all the time, you know? I wasn’t able to…”

A door opened to my left, and two burly Aurors and a woman walked out. She was young, twitchy with nerves, pale and sweaty. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, but we were both walking, and the Aurors were there. The grip on my wand tightened, and the weight on my chest amplified.

Miss Wilkinson… the girl from the alleyway.

“And I hope that you’re coping better than she did.”

I followed Wilkinson’s head down the corridor, until she disappeared into the elevator. Higgins placed a hand on my elbow, and steered me into the meeting room. One of the record clerks laid a selection of files and documents on the table.

“Thank you, Collings.”

The young man bustled out the door.

“Can I help you to anything? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“Thank you, though.”

“Let’s get started.”

I was unsettled, on edge. A whole sheath of questions formed in my mind, but surely to ask Higgins would be too obvious, would highlight my connection to her. I looked at former boss as he shuffled through various notes. It could have been coincidence. It could have been chance. She was a reporter, and they had often dropped by the records library to investigate an old case, something from the war. It was nothing special.

But her face… I could picture it so clearly, a frozen moment. She had looked so _scared._

Perhaps I had inspired it.

“Something funny to share, Weasley?”

“No, sir. Just strange being back here, sir.”

He looked skeptical.

“Of course.”

“Sir, can I ask – “

“You have a copy of this photograph, is that correct?”

It was Lorcan and Lysander, fighting on the cliff edge, their parents smiling.

“Yes. Well, Lorcan did.”

“And you know that another copy was found near his body?”

“The Aurors…” I struggled to remember their names, of the two agents dispatched to my flat. “That’s what they said.”

Higgins nodded.

“A pretty shoddy piece of evidence, in my opinion, but the lower-downs seem a bit obsessed by it.”

It had convinced me.

“And you were at Lorcan’s funeral, yes?” Higgins went on, before realising his mistake, and giving a short laugh. “Yes, of course. I saw you there.”

“Yes.”

He seemed at ease; perhaps I should be too. I shifted in my seat, appearing less upright, more casual. I wanted to loosen the top button of my shirt.

“Lysander left,” I said quickly, “he left halfway through. After the service.”

“And you didn’t see him again?”

“He came back, must have been a couple of hours later.”

“And you don’t know where he went?”

“No.”

“Any potential ideas?”

I was looking at Lysander again, crying in the spare room, weeping in his too-small suit. I had wondered, then, what it would be like to read his mind, to decipher the thoughts and emotions he could so easily keep concealed. He had fascinated me. I had never seen him like that before, so undone.

“No.”

Higgins raised an eyebrow. He flipped a page.

“The break-in,” he continued, and I remembered the article I had read at my parents’ house. “Happened on the same day. The lower-downs also seem to think Scamander could be responsible for it.”

“And you don’t?”

“I suppose it makes sense, when you consider which evidence locker was tampered with.”

“And he had opportunity.”

Higgins nodded. “So you say.”

“He wasn’t there.”

“Just because you didn’t see him, doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”

“But…”

Higgins scribbled something on his sheet, and I leant forward in my seat to try and see what it was, but he twitched the parchment away from me.

“I’m sure the other mourners will confirm this time frame,” he said nonchalantly. “Everything just seems a little circumstantial at this point, you see. Although Scamander’s flee from questioning seems a little suspicious.”

“A little?” I scoffed.

“He has something to hide.”

“Yes…” I answered. “Murder.”

It was always the same. Comforted by Higgins’ casual air, his sometimes insensitive small-talk, I would talk and talk, sarcastic quips and rude comments coming easily but definitely unwarranted. I would forget – temporarily, but sometimes for longer – that he commanded more respect than I did. Then, in a moment of quiet self-reflection, I would realise that Higgins was my boss; that his familiar manner hid considerable skill and experience, considerable authority.

I sat up straighter in my seat.

“Perhaps we should do this another time?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure about this funeral? His whereabouts? No idea whatsoever?”

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“I thought you two were friends. Classmates.”

“Yes.”

“Since third year?”

“Well, I mean, we were family friends, but…” I began, but paused. “How did you know that?”

“Malfoy. Apparently, himself, you, Scamander, and Miss Rose Weasley made quite the little gang. Close, childhood chums.”

“Yes. Well…”

“You’re not close anymore?”

“No,” I said, too quickly. “I mean, yes. Of course.”

“Apart from one of them is a murderer.”

“That can detriment a friendship,” I replied.

“Sex can, too.”

Lysander was kissing me fervently, pushing me against the dresser; but I was enjoying it, pushing him, turning him on. He morphed, then, into the handsome healer, into Teddy…

“No.”

“You weren’t lovers?”

“Never.”

“How long had you been with Lorcan Scamander?”

“Four years.”

“Since school?”

“Final year.”

There was a sudden knocking sound. I looked to the door, certain that Wilkinson had returned to make a statement, but Higgins had turned, and gestured towards the mirror on the wall behind him. Someone had joined us.

“Tell me about him.”

I blinked.

“Six foot two, slim build, dark hair and eyes…”

“Very clever.”

“I thought that…” My skin was prickling. Higgins’ mouth twitched into a smile, and I felt like I was teetering on the precipice of something. ”I thought that this was about Lysander. About the picture… and the funeral. I thought we were going to talk about him.”

“We are.”

“Six foot three, slim build, dark hair and eyes…”

“Weasley.”

I fiddled with the fraying hem of Lorcan’s jumper, picking at the drying food stains. I wondered which facet of our relationship Higgins would find most fascinating.

“He’s my boyfriend. My friend.”

The words were weak, the importance of what he meant to me somehow diluted. Worse, they sounded hollow, and suddenly I felt guilty. My thoughts were moving fast, trying desperately to conjure up some poetic masterpiece, some imaginative, romantic narrative that showed our relationship in its best, golden light.

When we think of the past, it’s the most beautiful things we pick out; the shining summer days, the pristine, snow-covered Christmases. He had picked me up at graduation and twirled me around, and I was laughing, my hair spinning. He had attributed his success to me in one of his papers. He was popping a bottle of champagne. We were dancing effortlessly at Victoire’s wedding…

It was always so easy, so painless. We had laughed at Rose and Noah, at their need for date nights, the way she would drag him to events, to show him off. These shining moments comforted me, and they were so easy to cling onto. They were easy to shape, to mould; we had spent so many happy days that it was easy to believe the other, darker days didn’t happen, or were purely part of my imagination.

He had thrown away my underwear and taken me on the living room floor… but had I enjoyed it, the feel of the wooden floor, the warmth from the fire? He had spat in my face one night – he had lost someone at work, a child, a young girl, and I had said something, it was my fault, I had caused it – but I was certain, confirmed by my ethereal, too-colourful dreams, that he had just moved to wipe a smudge of lipstick from my jaw. He had pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me, gently.

He had torn at my dress that night, torn a seam in my gown… but it was in the heat of the moment, and he was to receive an award, so I let him… and when I had entered the hospital, it was impossible to leave…

Who can even remember pain, once it’s over? Fresh pain always surprises you. Whatever pain he had caused me while he was alive had been replaced; the agony of his death was worse.

“He was in Ravenclaw, you know. Really smart. Prefect and Head Boy.”

“Yes. It’s in his reference for St. Mungo’s.”

Higgins gestured to a sheet of parchment.

“Right.”

“What was his relationship with his brother like?”

“Difficult, obviously,” I said. “I suppose Scorpius must have told you that. They didn’t speak much. I never really saw them alone together.”

“How long do you think it had been going on for?”

“Since they were young, maybe just after they got to Hogwarts.”

“And you have no idea why?”

“I suppose Lysander was jealous. Lorcan was good at everything, impressed teachers, had a lot of friends. Played Quidditch, too,” I replied, and Higgins wrote it down. “I never really knew how their parents dealt with it, whether they did it all. During the holidays, you know…”

“Jealously.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think it went deeper than that?”

“Well, I… don’t know. Lorcan and I didn’t talk about it because he knew Lysander was my friend. But when he went travelling, and we lost contact, Lorcan would make hints, say stuff… that’s what I took from it. That Lysander was jealous.”

“The way Malfoy described him, it seemed like Lysander wasn’t the type of person to get jealous. Above it all.”

I scoffed. “Scorpius would say that.”

There was a sound from behind the two-way mirror. Higgins raised an eyebrow.

“Bit of a hero-worship thing,” I explained. Higgins noted it down.

“I suppose you never came into it.”

“Did Scorpius tell you that?”

“I guessed.”

“No.”

Higgins wrote something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Just eliminating certain theories,” he said, not looking at me. “I suppose he wouldn’t tell you where he was hiding.”

I paused. If I told them where he was, in France, I would run the risk of not being able to take care of him myself. And my family would know that I betrayed him.

I opened my mouth to reply, but my mouth suddenly couldn’t function. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. I tried to speak, but no words came out. I knew I must have looked stupid, gaping silently in front of my former boss.

“Weasley?”

I tried again, desperately. My heart pounded, the sound of blood gushing in my ears. Wilkinson was behind the two-way mirror, perhaps, she had snuck away from her two Auror companions, come back and sought vengeance. Her stupid, ugly face pressed up against the mirror, waiting for me to choke, for my lips and tongue to swell, my eyes wide, my face blue…

I shook my head.

“He’s proving difficult to track down, even with the new port key legislation,” Higgins continued, still eying me warily. “No news at all?”

I was gripping the table now, struggling to reply… But my chest didn’t ache, my lungs weren’t screaming. I could breathe, but was unable to speak. I shook my head again.

“Fine. We move on, then.”

“But…” The word was too loud, escaping from behind a twisted tongue.

“Yes?”

_Say something._

“But…”

“Yes?”

“Travelling,” I said quickly. “If you can track where he went where he’s been for the last couple of years, I’m sure that’d turn up something. A contact, maybe.”

He had already thought of this, I knew; but he still nodded appreciatively.

“Yes.”

“His parents will have details. We didn’t… we didn’t really… we didn’t keep in touch.”

“Distance can really detriment a friendship.”

I blushed.

“Right, well… if that’s all…”

“Yes, of course,” Higgins said. He stood and opened the door for me. The corridor outside was still busy with people. “You can go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Keep busy, Weasley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose you can escort yourself out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck.”

And he shut the door behind me.

I was unwilling to hang around. The Auror department was essentially a more formal, well-equipped version of the Burrow. I could see Uncle Harry at the end of the corridor. One of my cousins could spot me in a second, if I wasn’t careful, and they would insist on taking me to lunch. If Victoire were to appear – stopping in for lunch with Teddy, to gossip with and intimidate his secretary – I would have no chance to get away.

Or worse, Wilkinson… I remembered her face, nervous and sweaty, and her wide, staring eyes. She was here for research, I told myself, walking with my head down towards the elevators. She was here for a story. Noah had threatened her job security and she was obeying his every word. She wouldn’t cause trouble. And now I had to uphold my end of the bargain…

I walked straight into someone.

“I was looking for you,” Scorpius said.

I dragged him by the arm, into an elevator. The grills clanged shut behind us, and I pressed all the buttons. Scorpius laughed.

“What have you been saying to Higgins?”

“What?”

“Why does he know everything about Hogwarts? About us?”

“What’s there to know? He wanted to know about Lorcan. And Lysander. I told him we were friends but that they didn’t get along. Anyone who was in our year would know that. What did you want me to say?”

I was being irrational; his face was telling me so, and I knew, deep-down, my accusatory tone was unjustified. The elevator doors opened on a random floor, and a woman stared at us, waiting for us to get out. The doors shut after a moment’s wait.

“It would be more suspicious if I didn’t say anything.”

“Right,” I said, and my voice was steadier. “You’re right, yeah.”

“He could have found it out from anyone, Dom, if it hadn’t have come from me…”

“Yes, all right, Scorpius. I get it. As long as that’s the only thing you’ve been telling him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wilkinson was there,” I said. “The girl from the alleyway.”

“What?”

“She was coming out of an office. With two Aurors.”

“She was doing research?”

“Hopefully.”

“I’ll look into it.”

I had tried to suppress how nervous I felt, but my hands were shaking. Scorpius’ jaw was clenched. I tried to focus on the small semblance of hope that was stirring at the back of my brain – that I wasn’t alone in this, that Scorpius was there in the alleyway and here with me now.

“And what have _you_ been telling Higgins?” He asked.

“What?”

“What were you in there for? What did he want to know?”

The doors opened again, but still, we stayed put.

“More information about the funeral. They think it was Lysander that did it, that he tried to tamper with the photograph. And he was missing from the wake, definitely, he wasn’t there…”

“What else?”

“Just… just other stuff, all right? About our time at Hogwarts, about Lysander. What he’s like, him and Lorcan, where he is…”

Something clicked, a connecting wire sparking.

“You used a tongue-tying hex?”

“What?”

“To stop me… you were behind the two-way mirror, not Wilkinson. You didn’t want him to know where Lysander was.”

Another floor. Someone entered the lift with us, and Scorpius pulled me by the arm, further into the corner.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Don’t you have any morals?”

“An interesting response,” he replied, “coming from you.”

I didn’t have the energy to look affronted.

“Let’s go for a drink,” Scorpius continued. “Talk about it.”

“No.”

His hand loosened on my arm. I was being rude, unresponsive; he knew how I could get, and was prepared to give me space. His sensitivity made me feel worse. He would go so far out of his way to protect his friends, even Lysander, who had treated us so poorly for so long; and I had thrown him under the bus for the sake of my own security.

“I’ll see you later then.”

I reached out and held his hand briefly.

The lift clattered to a halt and, miraculously, we had arrived at the atrium. I would have to be quick, I reasoned, as we both stepped out; members of my family would be out in number, and I ducked instinctively at the sight of any red-headed people. Scorpius steered me towards a fireplace.

“I would say ‘look after yourself’, but I know how much you hate that.”

“Bye, Scorpius.”

He waved awkwardly at me, and I could see Percy trotting towards us as I stepped into the fire. My uncle had raised a hand in greeting before I twirled on the spot, into the spiralling green flames.

 

 

_“Tell me about him,”_ Higgins had said.

The dreams had a distorted quality, like I was watching from far away, my view obstructed by too bright light. It was dusk, the candles were light, we had just eaten; the table was laid, but the plates were empty. One lay shattered on the floor.

_“Is there something wrong with quiet companionship?”_

_Yes,_ I had thought, with no sense of guilt. I thought of Lysander crashing through jungle, of the eager looks of jealous lovers, of Lorcan’s determined, fervent face.

“ _No_ ,” I replied. _“But not every night.”_

_“Do you not like it? Us?”_

_“Like? It’s not a question of like.”_

_“Then what?”_ Lorcan sounded petulant.

_“Wouldn’t you rather be passionately and whole-heartedly desired?”_

He looked at me; a strange look, and I struggled to read his features. I had insulted him, apparently, the thin line of his mouth told me that much, the slight clench of his jaw. But then, nothing. He was composed, collected.

The light brightened, and I stumbled back. I fell through the air slowly, before I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head.

“ _Yes_ ,” Lorcan replied. _“But not every night.”_


	13. Mr. and Mrs. Right

My stomach contracted violently and the creamy chunks of vomit hit the toilet bowl, a swirling mixture of bile and partially digested food. I grasped around blindly for some tissue, tears streaming, and my trembling hands hit a bowl of potpourri that scattered everywhere. The fragrance hit the back of my throat, making me retch again, my knees slipping on the shining tiles.

Someone knocked on the door.

“One second!”

I lowered the seat and pulled myself up to sit on the toilet, wiping away the tears. My hands shook and stank, and I could smell the vomit on my hair and on my clothes. I wished that I could stay here, locked away from the rich food and the red wine, from the schmoozing guests and my relatives. I could flick through the neat stack of _Witch Weekly_ magazines in the magazine rack, and read about my cousin’s apparent dalliances and my uncle’s weight gain.

I placed my shaking hands over my eyes, trying to block it all out. My breath came in short bursts.

For weeks now, I had felt constantly on edge. Any small mistake and I would freeze with sudden nerves, and return to bed, leaving broken mugs or undercooked meals to fester. When I breathed, it felt like the air couldn’t quite get to the corners of my lungs, my ribs locked inside a steel cage. Larger blunders – losing my bag on the bus, forgetting my prescription, or the mounting dread of Rose’s wedding – I encountered with an eerie calm.

I stood, my ankles weak in towering heels. Staggering to the tap, the water felt cool on my wrists and I splashed it over my face. It offered me some small recovery, but I would need more to face the onslaught of my family, and confront the harrowing experience of the rehearsal dinner.

 

 

 

 

“My brother Noah is a wonderful, kind, intelligent man. Well... at least I hope he is. Uncle Phillip did give him the business instead of me, so I’m guessing he’s got some sort of brains up there. Apparently, he’s got more than me... but I’m not bitter, not bitter at all...”

The guests, clutching champagne flutes and flashing each other sickly, smug smiles, tittered.

“Noah is the best brother anyone could ask for, and in Rose, he has found a fabulous wife, and I have found a fabulous sister-in-law. Please, join me in welcoming her into our family.”

Bryant leaned in close, and whispered something to Rose. She blushed, a hand lightly touching his chest.

“It is, I’m afraid, because of the most dreadful circumstances that I am now Noah’s best man. It was only a few months ago when Lorcan was taken from us, and I know that he meant a lot to both my brother and his bride to be...”

The drink was as warm as the overheated room. I hated the taste in my mouth: the tang of vomit stung at my throat, mixing with the bubbly fruitiness of the champagne, and the bitterness.

“The problem with being best man is that you never get a chance to prove it. Lorcan, however, did. A prefect, Head Boy, a leading light in the Healing community, Lorcan was easily one of the best men I ever knew, and I’m sure you would all say the same.”

The scuffle of material and the clatter of heels as people turned to glance at me, alone in the corner of the room, my knuckles white around my own glass. I followed the soft spread of the whisper – _“that’s her, is it? The wife? The girlfriend?”_ – as it passed between guests, acknowledged by less sympathetic cousins and encouraged by some of Noah’s more contemptible colleagues. I gave them a performance in return: grabbing another glass from a passing waiter, blushing at the attention… but my hands weren’t working as I told them, my legs neither. My actions were slow and clumsy, far from the grace embodied by my cousin.

Rose smiled at me, an attempt to fortify.

I hoarded the stolen thunder and thought about using it against her.

“I want to thank my parents, Howard and Belinda, who gave my brother the best possible start in life. They gave him the greatest guidance when it came to his choices and his life. They taught him how to run a successful business, how to be an active member of the community and, most importantly, how to share the rest of your life with someone who loves and cares for you. They are the best role models for the perfect marriage...”

Noah leant over and grasped his mother - a proud, aloof woman who must have been beautiful once but was now quite fat - by the hand in a comforting gesture. Rose smiled, and linked her arm through her fiancé’s in a perfect imitation of her future in-laws. Ron and Hermione stood at the side, my uncle slightly tipsy, Hermione tense and awkward. Hugo lingered around Noah’s other brothers; the twins bumping each other on the shoulder, Hogwarts age, and the eldest, sullen and sour-faced.

“And likewise, to Ron and Hermione, two heroes whose greatest achievement was not the saving of the wizarding world, but the raising of such a gracious, intelligent, and beautiful daughter.”

The champagne went down easily. I wondered if my parents would say the same about me. I wondered whether coordinating the resistance effort, being Head Boy, being a Triwizard champion would pale in comparison to this entity that they had created together, this supposed beacon of courtesy and charm and cleverness. The Veela charm reared inside me, the bells sounding, and I breathed deeply to combat it. The alcohol wasn’t helping.

And then, an indecent, mischievous idea, a wonderful, shining thought: what if I let them chime?

“I wish them the very best of luck. I know they will share a wonderful life together, and I am honoured to be a part of it. Noah, You are truly going to marry Miss Right – and from my own experiences with her, her first name is Always.”

“I want you all to raise your glasses to the happy couple,” Abel Bryant continued. “To Rose and Noah!”

The guests murmured the response. The happy couple shared a quick chaste kiss. She was glowing, smiling brightly, infinitely happy, and the audience stared at her and no one else. She might as well have been alone up there, soaking up the adoration.

I shouted afterwards, too late, my actions and words inconsistent, slurred: “To Rose and Noah!”

Someone tittered. Roxanne – resplendent in a sweeping beaded gown – looked at me, her eyes sad. The string quartet, seated on golden chairs in a corner of the sprawling living room, raised their bows.

“Wait!”

Victoire was moving towards me, and men were parting to get a good look. Her arms were outstretched. She was going to scold me, the look on her face was clear, her wedding ring glinting in the corner of my eye, sparkling in the candle light…

“I would like to say something,” I said, over the sound of the bells, which were growing in volume, clamouring in my already ringing head.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Victoire whispered, her grip tight on my arm.

I ignored her, stumbling towards the front of the room. She followed closely. She kept whispering, rasping ugly phrases.

“You’re drunk,” she said, her breath hot on my neck, decorating my cheek with spit. She was holding my hand, it could have been sweet, a close act between loving sisters, but the tension she exerted was turning her knuckles white. Her face displayed a dawning realisation. “You can hear them.”

She alone knew what it was like. My mother didn’t like to talk about it.

The bells were ringing, and I could imagine the sound echoed in my sister’s head. Her clenched jaw and her tight-lipped smile betrayed her attempts to quiet them. A man to the left of her swayed dangerously. Victoire rolled her shoulders, and I mirrored her: the burning between the shoulder blades took longer to pacify.

“Don’t,” she spat.

I leant forward, and kissed her on the cheek, smiling broadly. Bemused, her grip loosened.

“I’ll be all right.”

I faced the guests. A hand rested on my shoulder, but I didn’t turn around.

My heart raced… I was here, wasn’t I? Almost exactly in the same spot Rose was standing, but people weren’t looking, they weren’t listening… the light surrounding me wasn’t as golden as hers, I wasn’t glowing, but shrinking under harsh, fluorescent light, something dark and slimy, something nocturnal that should have stayed underground…

“This is… err… I’m sorry. This is ad hoc, and I’m not very good at making speeches,” I began lamely. “Rose, you look beautiful, you look great… I love how you can just wear anything. I wish… I wish I was brave enough to…”

The crowd was muttering. Roxanne, close to the front, shook her head.

“I’m pretty sure I met Rose when she was born. I think I was waiting in the corridor, pacing alongside Ron. I guess I wanted someone to play with. I was less impatient to meet Noah,” I continued, before pausing for a little too long, “only because I wanted to know that he was worthy of her.”

The groom shifted out of the corner of my eye.

“And he is, of course,” I said, my words tainted by blackmail. “I am so glad Rose has found the happiness she deserves, and I hope that her future is just as perfect as her past, and her present.”

The last line was from a speech made at my sister’s wedding. Victoire’s lip curled as she recognised it.

“You’re kind, you’re smart, you’re easy to like…” I stopped then, as if that was a compliment, that just anyone could like you. “I’m so glad you finally found your happiness with Noah. I wish I could… Imagine if… Every day he loves you more than the next.”

It was awkward. The waiting staff were refilling glasses at double the pace. The noise in the room was increasing. I heard whispering behind me. I imagined Noah signalling to the staff, telling them to circulate. The string quartet were poised to start the music.

My face was flushed, and I looked down to avoid the crowd. I was going to relive this moment for weeks, I knew, at night, during the day. I was squirming with regret under the guests’ gaze. The bells were quietening.

Lysander was laughing at me.

I wanted to crawl back into the undergrowth, back under a rock…

“Err…” I stuttered. “I guess Rose and I have always been firm friends then and despite a few differences of opinion concerning house elf rights and how the Wimbourne Wasps play their front three, I believe we’ve always been a team, and I have always valued her friendship.”

She gave so much to me, and I fed on her altruism like a fungus. I pictured Rose scrubbing at a burnt pan, chopping vegetables, making beds, picking out clothes, cooking me breakfast, stroking my hair, and my eyes were suddenly filled with frustrated, embarrassed tears. The thunder I had stolen – her happiness, her time in the limelight, her special fucking day – fizzled, dampened by my tears and my dank, dripping jealously.

“She is invaluable to me,” I said. “I love… I love you.”

Victoire was glaring at me as I moved towards her, into her arms. Rose was avoiding me, gliding back into the crowd, already smiling. The music started, and so did the chatter, but I missed it all, cradled in the crook of Victoire’s arm.

She led me out the room, along the corridor. I was pushed into a darkened room, onto the bed. She pulled at my shoes. I crawled underneath the blanket. Victoire perched on the bed beside me, stroking my hair.

“I know you’re hurting, I know you’re struggling, but you cannot use it as an excuse. You cannot behave like that,” she said, her voice kind, and I was automatically suspicious. “Get some sleep. I’ll take you home later.”

I lurched over the side of bed and threw up again.

 

 

 

 

I woke suddenly. Someone had laughed too loudly, or a glass had smashed, or the record on the gramophone had skipped. I watched, bleary-eyed, as the door closed quickly, the unwelcome visitor realising their mistake and returning to the party. The music had changed; I assumed people were dancing, and the older guests had left. Noah had probably unveiled a lavish selection of fine alcohol and people were enjoying themselves.

The bed was comfortable, the sheets soft and luxurious. I was buried under mounds of blankets, and I would have been happy to stay there, cocooned away from the world… but then it started to settle, the memory of the speech, of the bright light, of Victoire’s stern stare. I had drunk too much, I tried too hard. I curled myself up, pulled the covers over my head. I tried to contain it. Instead, it manifested itself as nausea.

I sprung free of the sheets, bile rising, dashing out of the door. The guests were still in the living room, and the music was loud. Nobody noticed me. Desperate, I grasped at the nearest door handle, and stumbled into a different room. I barely had time to acknowledge the panelled walls, the bookcases, the impressive mahogany desk before I vomited, again, into a waste-paper basket. I slunk to the floor. I wanted to go back to sleep.

The door opened. I nestled in the corner behind the open door and an ornately-carved dresser as several people entered the room: the Bryant twins, Jacob and Esau, bulky and brutal in matching navy blue suits. Hugo followed them, his bow tie untied, his skin flushed, a clumsy nature to his movements. They were accompanied by, I assumed, were friends from school, all cut from the same privileged cloth.

“He keeps the good stuff in here,” Esau said. I huddled further into the shadow of the dresser. “He’s got a whole cabinet full of… ahh, here we go…”

Cigar smoke filtered around the study, and the leather chairs squeaked and rubbed as their occupants moved to fill glass tumblers with a variety of overpriced, pungent liquors. Hugo quietly perused the bookshelves, stopping occasionally to pull one from the shelves. His hand lingered on the back of an armchair, close to Jacob’s shoulder. Noah’s younger brother was telling a story, some tedious, spiralling anecdote.

I settled. Someone from the party would notice them missing, and come looking; they would be back with the main group before long, and it was comfortable in my corner, and dark, and they weren’t playing any jarring music or asking me any questions…

The smell from the waste-paper basket hit the back of my throat and I retched silently.

“So this bachelor party, right… it was just insane!” Jacob said, and Esau laughed along with him. “This was last weekend or something, Noah got his whole work lot out with us, couple of guys from Hogwarts…”

Had Rose expected similar treatment? A lavish, fun-filled night with her friends and her cousins and possibly some strippers? I hadn’t stopped to think about it. The idea of leaving my flat made me break out in a cold sweat.

“So we start with the usual, you know, up to Norfolk with Daddy and Cormac to hunt some nogtails and general country retreat, you know. I caught seven, actually,” he said, looking around for some validation. Hugo shrugged. “Had this huge dinner and lots of wine, classic uncle banter, games, cheese, et cetera.”

He took a large gulp of his drink, only just hiding his distaste.

“Although, you know, a bit of a sausage fest, so Wiggles, Bingley and I decide to bounce. Noah's heading home to the missus anyway so he shouldn’t care what we get up to, you know, and Caveman says he can get us into this luxury place…”

“As if Wiggles made it out.”

“I know, right, but he did! Bit sloppy, admittedly, and his face looked like he was melting, but he was walking and slurring, so we figured…”

“The bastard.”

Knowing Rose, she would have wanted something quiet anyway, not this hedonistic extravagance. Images of me and her with faceless acquaintances at afternoon tea, at a spa, asking _how_ _I was doing_ … I leant over the waste-paper basket, chest heaving trying to keep my labored breathing silent.

“Noah made this huge thing of wanting to go back to Rosie, to the flat, but people wanted to carry on, so we go back to the city, and hit up Caveman’s friend, who says that…”

“Which place?”

“This bar, nothing fancy, in the end. Muggles lumbering around. But there was this girl…”

There was a sudden splash, and a breaking of glass.

“Aahh, Hugo, come on now!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” Rose’s brother was mumbling, incomprehensible, “I don’t know…”

“ _Reparo.”_

The room quietened again.

“Anyway, so this girl… right… I can’t even describe her. I don’t know where she was from, must have been foreign, or home-schooled, I don’t know, because I had definitely _not_ met her before, and she wasn’t much older than us, or anything…”

“Muggle?”

Jacob scoffed. “She could function on some basic level.”

“Beauxbatons?”

“Who knows. She’s there, and dancing, and you know, and she’s got these friends… Anyway, we make our move…”

“Oh really? How did that go?”

“Perfectly, as usual, thank you, Lawrence. She seemed interested, you know, all giggly and shit, hair twirling. She tells us of this other place she’s heading to, all VIP, owned by her brother, so she can get us and get us free drinks…”

“Is this just a boring story about a below-average bar crawl?”

“Nothing about me is below-average,” Jacob retorted. He coughed as he took another swig of whiskey. “Admittedly, the anecdote starts off pretty slow…”

“And pretty fucking boring.”

“Maybe with less interruptions it would flow better, Lawrence.”

There was a mumbling of agreement.

“We go to this speakeasy, right in the middle of the city. I think it’s called ‘Aloysius’s’, or something. But we’re not allowed in, even though the girl said we could. We linger outside for a bit, and it’s getting quite busy by this time.”

_Aloysius’s._ Lorcan had taken me by the hand and dragged me inside, and I had protested. He had said something earlier that evening, something I didn’t like, that I had taken the wrong way, and I had been sulky and difficult all evening. He had tried to sweeten me up outside, away from the dark dancefloor and the gyrating bodies, where we had room to talk, where we could hear each other.

I remember the feel of his hand in mine, its warmth.

“They say it’s because we’re too young, boring stuff, but then one of the bouncers recognises Wiggles, and he signals to his boss, who signals to his boss, and it turns out that Wiggles’ dad provides liquor licenses and indoor firework grants at the Ministry, and they need his approval for something, so we’re in!”

“They let Wiggles in?”

“Don’t get me started. He was drooling at this point.”

It had been Rose’s birthday, I remember, and I hadn’t seen her all evening. She was dancing with her friends, and I was outside, arguing with Lorcan. I hadn’t even bought her a gift. Instead, I had crudely pushed a gin and tonic into her hand and told her to drink up. On my birthday, she had given me an antique necklace and baked me a cake.

“So we head in… turns out some of the Ravenclaw lot were already there. There’s this massive security presence as well, which makes the Wiggles thing even more ludicrous, because there’s a foreign Quidditch team there, from Portugal or some place…”

“Braga Broomfleet?”

“The same. Turns out the rest of Ravenclaws have insulted their beater, and there’s a huge fight going, and there’s these rumours that the Department for International Magical Cooperation have sent some Law Enforcement people down, you know, to keep the peace.”

He took another swig of whiskey.

“But Barker’s just applied to the Foreign and Commonwealth Magical Trade Bureau, and Wiggles’ dad is big at the Ministry, and Noah really doesn’t want another story about Esau and I to come out, but we all head back outside before Enforcement turns up and the whole night turns into some sort of international incident…”

“What do you mean, ‘another story’?” Hugo was speaking now, slurred and slow.

“You know, those Muggle children, the ones in Norfolk…” Esau answered, before his brother shushed him. Jacob finished his glass in one, and continued.

“We head outside, and a whole Enforcement squad arrive at the same time, so we make a dash for it, down this alleyway. Wiggles can barely move by this point, you know, so we were lucky not to be found. We lay low, wait for everything to die down. Wiggles has fallen asleep by the time we see it…”

“See what?”

“A hand.”

The room fell silent.

“A cat was nibbling at it.”

I closed my eyes against the returning sense of nausea.

“Just out in the middle of the alleyway.”

“The fuck…”

“Was there blood?”

“What did you do?”

“Called it in anonymously the next day. Don’t want to get involved in any of that shit.”

Again, another pause.

“Turns out, right… turns out, it was Smokey’s.”

There was a murmur of recognition and shock.

“Noah told me at lunch the other day. He works for him, you know, after he graduated. Had to apply for sick leave, disability benefits, special work entitlements. They can’t grow it back, you know. They can’t give him a new one.”

“Shit.”

“Smokey?”

“Smokey Grey. Maximillian Grey. Couple of years above Noah, I think. Works for him at the Prophet. Looked pretty beaten up the last time I saw him, but apparently things have got a lot worse for him, and I think…”

The door opened again. It slammed into my shin and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop from crying out.

“There you are.”

It was Noah. The younger boys scrambled to stand up, to hide their glasses, but it was too late. He waved his wand, and they rose into the air and settled back onto the drinks trolley.

“I think you should return to the party.”

They stood as one, Hugo stumbling a little, and tracked out of the study.

Noah stood in the silent room. He tapped his fingers along the edge of his mahogany desk, his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. He stood straight, accustomed to always being watched, and I took in the powerful strength of his back, and his arms. His fingers stilled.

He had hurried back to Rose. He had wanted to leave his own stag do to be home with her, together, just as Lorcan and I used to be. He had turned his back on a night of debauchery to be with her, in front of the fireplace, holding each other. He looked after her as I couldn’t, wouldn’t…

Noah moved his head, quickly, to the left, accompanied by a sharp, snapping noise as he cracked the bones in his neck.

I shuffled further into the corner as he walked back, and hid in the shadows until the door shut with a soft click.


End file.
